


Arson

by peacehopeandrats



Series: Once Upon a Crime [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacehopeandrats/pseuds/peacehopeandrats
Summary: Quick SummaryThis series is going to cover Season 7 as various characters wake up. Since it focuses on the crimes rather than the episodes, you won't get an entire episode's telling in one work. It is basically CSI, so it is also going to focus on the detectives and the people around them. In this work, we learn of the beginning of Hook and Rumple's friendship, and some of Alice's backstory with Rumple, as well as following the three of them through their time in Hyperion Heights.TimingCovers events we didn't see between Rogers' discovery of the murder scene and the point where Weaver/Rumple has his chat with Belfrey. (Mostly around the time of Episode 7 - Eloise Gardner.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First, a very important note on PTSD, which is only mentioned here, not described or experienced:  
> In MY belief, Post Traumatic Stress is a NATURAL reaction to horrible events that have happened to a person in their life, it is NOT a disorder and I refuse to call it such. Though this view is beginning to be shared by many, and is sometimes making it on television shows, this writing takes place in a time when it is common to include the D, so I have done that ONLY to keep from confusing readers.  
> If you suffer from Post Traumatic Stress and you are reading this note, please be aware this story is SAFE for you to read and should contain no triggers. Someone only mentions it as a form of diagnosis. Sufferers, you are not alone, and you are loved and understood by many in this world.
> 
> Obligatory "posting fanfiction makes me uncomfortable" remarks  
> I was madly in love with Season 7, but because it was so rushed, we missed huge chunks of people's lives that should have been told.  
> I hate missing important chucks that should be told.  
> I mean suddenly Hook is Rumple's best friend? What? How?  
> Question no longer.  
> While I prefer not to write what has already filmed, there are one or two scenes that are included here for the sake of proper storytelling.  
> Hopefully my version of events is acceptable to you.  
> Feel free to leave comments and check out my other work. I answer everything.  
> This work also takes place at the end of my previous series: Once Upon a Time.  
> It will also connect to my series about the Golds: Growing Up. This is why Growing Up is on hold. I actually DO have the next part of that story ready to post, but I need to get a few Crimes up before I can do that. Sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rogers is kept awake by his quest to find Eloise Gardner, unaware that the person he is working with is a man from his past with a history of schemes behind him.

“What pieces do you already have that you're not paying attention to?”

The words hurled at him through the darkness, then tumbled around in his mind, hitting every memory and sparking it to new life again. Flashes of the murder scene snapped crisply behind his closed eyelids and unintelligible shouts from Weaver filled his ears. 

Rogers could feel his head tossing from one side of the pillow to the other and knew he was trapped in a hell that was neither pure sleep nor true wakefulness. The memories of what had happened mingled with haunting images that he couldn't explain and pushed at his consciousness until they finally broke him, forcing his eyes open to witness the utter lack of progress he had made while trying to follow orders.

With a grunt of frustration, Rogers threw the covers aside and marched himself to the closet. Weaver's attitude be damned, there was a reason that Ochotta had been murdered so soon after his interrogation and Rogers wasn't getting any sleep until he knew what that was. If that meant ignoring orders to get the job done, so be it.

Dressed and ready for work, he snatched his keys from the table and headed out, ignoring the clock whose angry glow would have told him he had only been home for an hour.

* * *

“Grandpa's _here_?!” Henry's words shot out into the woods like arrows from a bow. They hit every object around them with a sharpness that only served to prove his excitement. Killian heard the shout and rushed silently toward the camp, but hesitated as he approached when he saw Regina and Henry standing by the fire, alone, Henry's joy as clear as Regina's sadness.

“I know he sent Alice to keep me from Ella, but I assumed he met her in some other realm.” Henry spoke quickly, rambling until his eyes went wide with certainty. “We have to go find him-”

“No, Henry.” Regina gently placed a motherly touch on her son's arm. Her eyes closed against what she said next. “He won't join us.”

Henry stood silently, as if processing this information was much harder than could be imagined. His eyes and mouth were wide in surprise. “No. He _has_ to come. He's a hero. He's family. And without Belle-”

 _Belle?_ Unwilling to intrude, Killian had turned to leave, assuming that Henry's excitement had been about his maternal grandparents, the charming and very annoying do-gooders who could never leave well enough alone. This mention of the Dark One's housekeeper stopped him in his tracks. If the news was about the Crocodile, then it was definitely worth listening to.

“Henry,” Regina insisted. “Please... It's his choice and we have to respect that.”

“It's because he's the Dark One, isn't it?” Henry's eyes grew cold as he spoke. “Well, we can show everyone that he isn't the same man he once was. I bet people wouldn't even recognize him!”

This caused a shudder to travel along Killian's spine. If _one_ Dark One could arrive in this land undetected, what would the other do? Would they find themselves faced with _two_ Crocodiles? The very idea was too disastrous to think of.

“That's just it, Henry. _We_ remember him as the kind hero, a Savior, a loving husband and a doting father... but no one here is going to see him that way.” Regina removed her hand and shrugged sadly. “And now that Belle isn't here to keep him on the right path...”

Hook watched realization spread over Henry's face. “The scales will come back again because of his addiction to the curse.”

Regina nodded. “Yes...”

“But you said he gave up magic.”

This Killian simply couldn't believe. The Dark One refusing to use his powers? The idea was so ridiculous that he almost laughed out loud.

“He did,” Regina said, “but he told me if he came with us he would only be tempted to use it again, to protect us. You're the Author, you know his story better than any of us, and you _know_ that no matter what he does with the best of intentions-”

Henry finished the sentence for her, grumbling the words as if he were a child repeating what he was tired of hearing. “His fate was taken from him, so it always goes wrong. I know. But _he_ broke the last curse. He saved us all!”

“He knew you would try and come find him,” Regina sighed, lifting both of her arms and grasping her son firmly by the shoulders. “Henry, this is Rumple's decision to make. He wants us to remember him as the man who left Storybrooke, not someone with darkness filling his heart.” Killian watched the smallest of smiles twitch on Regina's lips. “And if anyone understands wanting to avoid being seen as a villain, it's me, so I promised I would keep you away. All right?”

Letting out a slow breath, Henry calmed, his head nodding slowly as he accepted his mother's words.

“He's changed,” Regina whispered with a pride that made Killian wonder exactly _what_ had happened between the Evil Queen and the Dark One before curses and wishes had come along. “He has changed _so_ much. But he came here to find a way to release himself from the dagger and that is going to take magic. I know he says he won't come with us, but I have a feeling he will be keeping an eye on everything anyway. You know how Rumple is when it comes to protecting his family...”

“It's going to kill him.” Henry almost whispered the words. “Releasing himself from the dagger will make him mortal.”

“He knows that,” Regina answered sadly. “It's what he wants. To be with Belle.”

Suddenly Henry picked up a pack and slung it over his shoulder. “Well, he shouldn't have to do it alone!”

“He's not alone,” Regina said, moving in step with him. “He's with Alice.”

Killian's eyes opened so wide at this news that he could feel the physical strain of the lids to remain in position. Forgetting his desire to be discrete, he burst into the clearing and strode up to the fire to stare the other two down. “What does the Crocodile intend to do with my daughter? And why aren't either of you stopping him?!”

Regina tilted her head and shot him a stern look. “Just how long were you lurking in the shadows?”

“Long enough,” barked Hook as he scowled at each of them in turn. “Now will one of you please tell me _what_ is going on?”

Henry, being the author, took it upon himself to tell the tale, somehow managing to sum up the history of Storybrooke in the span of minutes. Killian listened intently and felt a guilt begin to press on his heart. The man had been through the loss of a child, then regained that child only to lose the one woman he loved more than life itself. The image of Alice's smile came to mind and he remembered the pain he felt at being torn from her, of being permanently separated from the one thing in all the realms that he truly cared about... And then he thought about Milah.

“You can peel the scales from a crocodile,” Hook spat, feeling the anger boil inside of him again, “but that doesn't change his bite.” He stabbed a finger in Henry's direction. “The Dark One is dangerous and I guarantee you that whatever plan he shares with you is only a single wave on a stormy sea.”

Those words said, Killian spun on his heel and strode off into the woods. Though he heard Regina shout a protest, he refused to listen. Someone had to protect Alice and that someone would have to be him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the help of Alice, Rumplestiltskin finds his way back to the path of good.

Hours after the murder scene had been processed, Weaver threw himself into the seat of his car and slammed the door. _Thank goodness for cursed memories,_ he thought as he leaned back against the headrest and closed his eyes, allowing them a moment's rest. Rumplestiltskin had no idea how he would have gotten through life _pretending_ to be a detective if the required training hadn't been sitting in the back of his mind, as conveniently accessible as muscle memory.

"Whoever decided that all Saviors should be dumped into modern-day law enforcement should be punished," he insisted sharply, then felt his eyelids clench tighter as he realized that the same part of him that accessed Weaver's background also expected Belle to be sitting beside him, ready with a response that would make him smile. His hands slammed on the steering wheel in frustration. "I _can't_ do this," he insisted, tightening every muscle in his body to keep himself from breaking down before he could drive off. He needed her. Weaver was a “bad cop” who didn't follow rules and didn't care who he betrayed as long as the end result suited him. The man had every quality that Rumple had been trying to shed for so many years. He had only changed because Belle was with him, nudging him, reminding him of who he really was. How could he do any of this without her? How could he continue to allow her to remain _just_ out of reach?

A tap came to the glass by his ear, making him jump, his keys spilling to the floor of the car. "You all right, Detective?"

Rumple turned and saw the face of just another ordinary man in this ordinary community that had no idea about what was going on right underneath everyone's noses. "Fine," he shouted back through the closed window. "Been a long day."

The officer nodded. "You know, they said you were gonna be out a few days. Maybe you should-"

"I'll be fine," Rumple insisted as Weaver. "Just want to get home."

"Don't we all," came the reply, with an added semi-salute. "Night."

Giving a sharp nod of dismissal, Rumple bent down to pick up his keys from the passenger side floor board and blinked when he saw a perfectly square patch of yellow beneath them. The tiny object managed to reflect the remaining patrol lights and repeated their rhythmic flashing as if it were trying to get his attention. Rumple picked at the bit of plastic, having to tug it away from the carpet it was stuck to. 

"Where did you come from?" He held the thin form between his fingers and studied it. With Belle on his mind he couldn't help comparing the color to the gown she had worn as they danced on their wedding night, but the sticky adhesive on the square's rough side reminded him of Alice and her marmalade. All of a sudden the square's origin struck him. This was part of the girl's color cube. It had to have fallen off the last time she was in the car, the night he saw Belle in the hospital.

Denying himself time to reflect on the image of his wife, Rumple shoved his car key into place and turned it so quickly that his hand lost its grip. With renewed determination he sped away from one crime scene, desperate to get to the site of another.

* * *

Tilly stared at the door of her cargo container, eyes unblinking. Her mind was racing in every direction and absolutely refused to quiet itself. The outside world seemed still and the slit of light around the entrance was faint and fabricated, not the brilliant glow of sunlight, so she knew she should be sleeping, but all she could do was think about the last few days. Images of Weaver and Rogers and the ambulance and the hospital rotated through her, intermixed with the chess board and a shattered teacup that she had no idea what to do with. 

Letting out a grunt of frustration, she finally gave in, sitting up on her mattress and tossing the thin cover aside. "No point in even trying, I suppose," she grumbled to herself, giving in to everything that was keeping her awake. Though she fought to keep her focus on the doorway, her eyes traveled to the empty floor, where a pool of blood had once been. Detective Rogers had promised that he would handle the incident from the other night and no one had come for her since then, so why did the memory of Weaver's near death torment her so? She was certain there was a deeper meaning to why she clung to it, but every time she felt she was at the right page of that book, it turned too fast for her to see what was written there.

The sound of something tapping on metal startled her and she let out a muffled yelp of alarm.

"Tilly?" Weaver's voice.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she made herself presentable and crossed the small space to open the door for him. "Detective," she said with a wide grin. "What brings you here at..." Tilly looked at her bare wrist and shrugged, "whatever time it is."

The man in front of her smiled, not a large smile, but she could see the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. She loved to make him smile. It used to be such a rare thing, but she noticed that in recent days his eyes seemed brighter and he just all-over _felt_ lighter somehow. 

"Pens," he said with urgency and his face immediately darkened, making her rethink her previous evaluation of his mood.

"They ran out at the station?" She tried to bring that smile back again, but failed.

Weaver shook his head. "No. _I_ need them. An assortment of pens. Something a girl about your age would use in a journal."

"Taking up a hobby, then?"

Weaver sighed. "Look, Tilly... I _really_ don't have time for this. Do you have any?"

Tilly could feel her heart sink a little at the harshness of his words. She was used to him being gruff but she had always been able to see something behind it, either a pain that she couldn't quite place, or a loneliness that he refused to admit. Tonight, though... tonight she felt nothing but frustration. Quirking one side of her mouth into a frown, she put her hands into her pockets and shrugged. "I can get them."

Clearly this wasn't what the Detective wanted to hear, but he nodded anyway. "All right," he finally said. "Meet me at the station first thing in the morning." He turned on his heel and began to walk away, but froze mid step and returned. Pointing a finger at her, then indicating the shelving beyond, he scolded, "And don't be late. I know for a fact that you have a case full of watches in there, so there's no excuse for it."

The corner of his mouth twitched again and Tilly wanted nothing more than to wrap him in kindness, to swaddle him so tightly that he would be forced to sit with her until she could puzzle out what was going on in his world. Something had changed in him, something that made him leap from one string of emotion to the next, and if there was anything Tilly knew well, it was the dangerous unraveling of a person who couldn't keep those strings together.

"Sure," she promised, "First thing."

Detective Weaver nodded and walked away, knowing better than to ask where the pens would come from. With a sigh, Tilly reached for her jacket. By the look of the brightening sky, it was only an hour or two before he would expect her at the station and she had some hunting to do.

* * *

Rumple stopped in his tracks when he reached the door to the office he shared with Rogers. The pirate-now-detective was sitting at his desk, studying a mixed spread of papers and the open journal from last night. He was so intent on his task that he didn't even look up when his partner's body blocked some of the light coming in from the main office. 

Was this part of the curse of the Savior? Saving people from their own stupidity? Rumplestiltskin took his frustration out on the files he had tucked to his chest, practically throwing the stack onto his desk as he strode in.

Rogers nearly fell out of his chair with surprise, then jumped to his feet when he realized he wasn't alone. “Weaver,” he grunted. “You could-”

Rumple held up a hand and spoke loudly over of the other man's words, preventing him from saying any more. “I told you to get some _sleep_ ,” he practically shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Rogers, his false accent thickening with annoyance. “Now _my_ understanding of “sleep" is to _not_ be at work while you're doing it.” With a roll of his eyes, Rumple dropped into his chair and rubbed his temple to calm himself.

“I _did_ sleep,” Rogers insisted as he glared down at him.

“You left the crime scene well after one in the morning.” Rumple humphed and made a show of checking the time, nodding at the clock on the wall. “It's not even six. Took a nap at your desk, then?”

Rogers opened his mouth to protest, but obviously couldn't find anything to say.

Rumple snorted. “That's what I thought.” He chucked a thumb at the doorway. “Get out.”

Blinking, Rogers stared at him, open mouthed, then shot back, “I left _you_ to 'finish up.' I've had more time for rest than you've given yourself. Don't presume-”

“I can presume anything I like,” Rumple answered as Weaver, standing and clawing at the items across the desk from him. He picked up the papers he could reach and the journal beneath them, creating a messy pile as he spoke. “I'm not the one fixating on a cold case that's best left alone.” 

“I can't explain it,” Rogers insisted, watching his partner's movements with desperation. Rumple was probably undoing hours worth of research and sorting, which was something that worked in his favor if he was going to pull the wool over the younger man's eyes. “I just feel... a connection somehow.”

Rumple glared at Rogers then, capturing his gaze with an icy stare. “You want to know what your connection is? You were unable to focus on the job then, just like you're refusing to do now.” He shoved the stack of items into his partner's chest.. “Now, unless you want me to talk to the Captain about this obsession of yours, I suggest you leave. Get a coffee,” he added with a false sense of cheer. “Clear your mind, _then_ come back when you're ready to do some _real_ work.” 

With another push from Weaver, Rogers stumbled away from his desk. It was obvious he wanted to throw out some sort of comeback, but he clearly didn't have it in him. Frowning, he marched himself out of their office, clutching the folder and all its files tightly in defiance.

Rumple waited until his partner had left the building, then sat heavily. Moving his hand from where it had been pressed to the side of the desk, he pulled out the journal from it's hiding place. With Rogers emotional, it had been easy for Rumple to use his father's old slight of hand tricks to conceal his movements and hide the book from view. 

Rumplestiltskin looked over his shoulder at the doorway and into the main room beyond. There was no way of knowing how long it would be before Rogers noticed the journal wasn't in the stack of things Weaver had given him, but he hoped that lack of sleep and Weaver's current mood would be enough of a deterrent to keep him away for at least an hour. Or until Tilly arrived.

Running a hand over his face, Rumple tried to calm himself. He had been awake in this dump for only a few days and the combination of continuing relationships with coworkers he had no desire to be around and _not_ being able to talk with anyone he actually knew was becoming a heavy load to haul. As Gold he had kept to himself, his shop was visited only when people needed something and back in those days everyone thought of him as an evil imp, which helped them avoid the place at all costs. Weaver had a reputation for rudeness and violence, but most of the officers in the precinct were used to dealing with his kind. It was part of the job. So just letting Weaver be an ass wasn't going to get him any peace.

Glancing down at the paperwork and evidence photos from the fire at Cluck's gave Rumple an idea. If he couldn't retreat to his shop, he could bring his shop to the station. One of the evidence rooms would certainly suit his purpose and it would be easy enough to reorganize the lockers to turn one unit into his own personal storage. Change the code on the door and he would have complete control over everything within. All he had to do was make certain _he_ was in charge of any evidence that came downstairs for a while and logged anything new that would have gone in the reorganized areas.

“Hello, Detective,” Tilly sang cheerfully from the doorway, breaking in to his thoughts.

“You're late,” he grunted at her as he idly waved her in. “Shut the door.”

Tilly pouted but did as she was told, then moved up to the desk. 

“You brought the pens?”

Pulling her hands from her pockets, she displayed a fistful of colors in each. “Whala!” The exclamation was more drama than purpose and when he didn't react other than to pluck a rose colored pen from one hand and a purple from the other, her face drooped. He could feel that his current mood was letting her down, but he also didn't have a choice but to give her the cold shoulder. If she became interested in what he was doing, he would never get her cooperation with the second half of his plan.

Quickly, Rumple picked up the journal and thumbed through it until he found a blank page among several pages of drawings. “You never saw this book,” he said as he rapidly began to color the paper pink, starting with the crease at the spine and moving outward, “If anyone shows it to you again, you find out exactly what they want with it, then come to me and let me know.” He dropped the rose pen onto his desk top, then tapped the space beside it. While Tilly set the rest of her pens in a neat pile, he made a few lines with the purple one. 

“That's nice,” Tilly commented idly, tilting her head to examine the page from a proper angle, clearly unable to make out what he was drawing. All Rumple had done was fill a quarter of an inch of the page with pink and a few specks of purple. 

He huffed dismissively at her admiration. “It's just a quick sketch of a memory,” he said as he lifted the unfinished image and ripped it out, careful to keep the color on both sides of the tear. “But the more believable the better.” 

Tilly stood silently beside him eyes and mouth wide. She looked from the book to the page in his hand and back to the book again.

“You'll catch flies,” Rumple said as he tested the ink for smearing before closing the journal and tossing it haphazardly on his partner's desk.

“So, what are you doing with that?” The girl nodded at the mostly blank page in his hand.

Rumple held it up to examine it, then tucked it away among the papers from Cluck's. “It's going home with me. I have other things to deal with today.”

Tilly reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. The touch was unusual for her, yet it felt so very familiar, from a time that seemed so long ago. “Need any company?”

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to find a way to bring the Alice that was inside of her her out again, so that they could talk the way they used to in the other enchanted realm, about her father and about Belle, about love and family. He thought about the dagger, locked away in the room downstairs and wondered what would happen if he gave it to her here. If she took it now would it consume her as it had almost done before? In a land without magic, could she simply crush it without taking the power and the curse as her own?

“I need to find someone very important,” he quickly announced, not realizing the words had escaped his lips until it was too late.

The smile on her face widened, showing her teeth and her excitement all at once. “I like hide and seek. Where do we start?” She had no idea how her insistence was both warming his heart and breaking it all at once. 

Rumple shook his head sadly. “No. I can't let you help me with this,” he told her, looking up into her eyes so filled with joy that they were twinkling like stars. “It's too dangerous for you.”

Tilly blinked. “But not for anyone else?” It was less a question and more of a statement. The light faded from her gaze, telling him that she knew she was being pushed away again and he hated to be doing the pushing.

Picking up the files he had carried in, Rumple stood and made his way to the door. “There are some things I would _never_ ask of you,” he said. “You understand that.”

“Sure,” she said as if she didn't really agree, but felt she had to.

Rumple nodded sadly, patting her on the arm. “Good girl,” He gave her a warm smile and wished he could tell her that she wasn't as alone as she felt, that he was trying to find her long lost love, but he knew there would be no explaining it now. Robin was safe, from what he had learned, and though he was still working on a way to reunite them, Rumple was certain it would happen on its own if he couldn't make it happen sooner. True love worked in mysterious ways. “Now go on,” he pulled some money from his wallet and put it in her hand. “Have a marmalade sandwich, on me.”

“Thanks.” she said with a wink. “I might.”

“Well, if you don't, I don't want to know what you used the money for,” insisted Weaver as he nodded at the door, his mouth twitching in a smile that he simply couldn't fight. There was no denying that she always found a way to care for him, but was that her job as the Guardian, or was that the promise they had made to each other sneaking through the most recent curse? “Oh, and Tilly,” he said as he snatched up the fistful of pens. “If you still have the broken teacup, how about bringing it next time?”

The girl nodded. “Sure. I don't know why, but I was hoping you would say that. I'll make sure I get every piece.”

Rumple nodded, smiling through his sadness. “You do that.” He sighed as he watched her go, then gathered up his things.

Making sure he left nothing behind but the journal, Weaver exited his office and made his way to the evidence rooms downstairs. Once inside, he placed everything onto the work table and turned to the locker that held his dagger. Beside it stood the metal box filled with the profiles he had made of Hyperion Heights residents who had all become transplants on the same day. Flipping through, he gave a quick glance to names or images, compiling a mental list of possibilities. The targets he sought would have to qualify as pure of heart and be immune to evil.

* * *

The Dark One stood at the edge of a clearing, gazing at the sad little house. He had traveled far to test the owner, a man who lived alone with his small farmyard of beloved animals. It was said he had magic and could talk to the creatures he lived with. Everyone Rumplestiltskin had spoken to insisted that the hermit would not even step on an ant in his path. Several times in the last week the Dark One had disguised himself in various ways and approached the man to check the validity of the rumors, but this would be the final test.

Calling up a small spark of flame to his hand, Rumplestiltskin gazed at the shack and the animal pen beyond. On his last visit, he had disguised himself as a weary traveler and had offered a magical talisman in exchange for food and a place to spend the night. The small trinket used dark magic, and he explained this to the animal whisperer, but insisted that in a house such as this, with the risk of fire a part of every day life, nothing would protect his animal friends with as much speed. “Simply aim it at the flames and will them to die,” he said, snapping his fingers. “And poof. Only smoke will remain.”

Now, just as he was about to set the hut ablaze, the Dark One noticed a small yellow rose growing in the garden at the side of the building. Had it been there before? Certainly it must have, but Rumple didn't remember seeing it any time he had visited in the last week. He shook his head at himself. _Probably just bloomed,_ he scoffed, then raised his hand again to send the spark forward. 

Suddenly his arm froze in place as another yellow blossom seemed to appear before his eyes, then a third. Unwilling to even twitch until the spark was extinguished, his hand remained in the air, though he tried to push it forward, something inside of him was holding him back. His eyes scanned the scattering of roses and suddenly all that he could see was Belle's picture on the ofrenda in the Cave of the Departed, surrounded by orange and yellow petals. “No, no, no,” he grumbled to himself, pushing his arm through the impenetrable barrier of his own determination, the darkness at odds with the Savior.

His eyes began to cloud with tears and he whispered a mixture of apologies to Belle and curses at himself as he lowered his arm and the small flame winked out. Through the fog of his tears, he hurried away, rushing aimlessly through the trees until, in his blindness, he slammed into someone and they toppled to the ground in a heap of cloaks and limbs.

* * *

Alice felt an unusual force pressing into one half of her body. She opened her eyes and saw blue sky, green leaves, and someone's leather boot. _Curious,_ she thought to herself. _That foot seems familiar..._

“Bad Darkness, Evil Darkness. Scales. Scales. Scales!” 

The voice that Alice heard was muffled, but she recognized it easily. “Rumplestiltskin!” 

“Have to spin. Spin, spin, spin...” He shushed no one in particular. “Quiet everything.” The reply didn't seem to be a reply at all and Alice wondered if he had even heard her. His mind had been wandering lately and sometimes, though he tried so desperately to fight it, the darkness won over the light that she _knew_ he had inside of him.

Pushing herself to a sitting position, she realized that in their tumble to the ground her robe had become entangled in the man's boot heel. He was sprawled in the undergrowth, one leg forcefully pressed into her side by the awkward binding of the cloth, the other lifted somewhat into the air, presumably to keep from kicking her in the face. The shrub nearby had snagged his hood and one arm seemed pinned beneath him.

As the Dark One babbled childishly away at himself, she worked to untangle his foot, then shifted her position to free his hood. “There,” she said with finality, brushing herself off with playful exaggeration. “Well, we have tested the ground and it still keeps us from floating.” Usually she could make him smile by playing around, but today his eyes refused to even turn her way. Her smile faded and she put out a hand for him to take. Though he recoiled, she insisted, her palm open, hovering just where she had thrust it. “Take it. Come on. Doesn't it always make things easier?” 

The man nodded after a moment of silence and tentatively tested the air between them with wiggling fingers before his hand shot out and latched on to hers as if it were his only lifeline.

Alice smiled and squeezed tightly to help anchor him. “See? Better already.” Searching for the dagger, she glanced around to make sure it had not been lost in their collision.

“No! No, no, no. Not for you,” he insisted, waggling a finger of his free hand at her, knowing what she was looking for. Rumplestiltskin sat himself up and checked his own inner pocket. “Safe, safe. Everything safe. Everyone safe.”

“Everyone?” She looked around. “Was someone in danger?”

Rumple let out a sound that was partly a cry, partly a whimper, and somehow a giggle. “Just a man. Dark One wanted to burn the house. Test him.” His eyes went wide and unfocused then. “But the roses. The roses said no.”

Alice blinked. She had seen many things in her travels, but conversational flowers weren't one of them. “Talking roses?” She smiled at him, trying to lighten his mood again. “I'd like to see that. Maybe we could teach them to sing. We could have a whole chorus of-”

“No, no, no,” he answered quickly. “Yellow. Yellow, yellow all around. Flickering flames!” He shut his eyes to whatever his mind was recalling, squeezing every muscle of his face tight with the strain of it.

Realizing where he had come from, Alice's eyes went wide. “I know where you were! The man in the clearing with all the animals. He grows yellow roses to sell in the village.” With Rumplestiltskin's hand still gripped tightly in her own, she stood, giving him a gentle tug to encourage him to get to his feet. “Let's go see-”

“Roses say no,” Rumple repeated. He didn't let go, but he didn't get up either and the tremble in his body told Alice everything she needed to know. His mind was searching for the light, for the one person who had always been able to nudge him in the right direction. He was feeling unraveled and he needed someone to sew him back together again. 

Alice's eyes grew heavy with worry. “Rumplestiltskin,” she whispered. “I know you're in there...” His shift in personality had become more complicated as the scales had gradually replaced skin, but there had never seemed to be a complete split between the Rumple she knew and the one who was plagued by the voice of every Dark One before him.

Rumplestiltskin rambled on, rapidly babbling as the fingers of his free hand danced in the air. Alice finally managed to draw him to his feet and placed a hand on his shoulder, trying to ground him. “Why do you do that?” She nodded at his hand, knowing the answer but needing him to focus on her words as he had the flowers before. “Who are you talking to?”

“Different voices,” the Dark One crooned in a childish tone. “So many voices. So many Dark Ones all up here.” He tapped a finger to his head, not realizing or blatantly ignoring the fact that what he touched was part of a twig and some dead leaves that were tangled in his hair.

Alice tenderly reached up to pluck the debris from his long strands and straighten them. “You aren't always like this,” she reminded him, gently insisting, “sometimes you are you. You were you when we met, and for so long after...”

Rumple let out a hum of consideration and pointed a finger skyward. “The darkness didn't have me then,” he explained. “I was better.”

Alice looked over his face, searching for the few patches of skin that had been there only days before. Every bit of tenderness on him had now become covered in hard, dark scales. Even his eyes and his teeth had changed now, though she searched and searched, she could find nothing on his outsides that said he was the same man she had vowed to help on his quest. “But you fought _so_ hard,” she reminded him, tightening her grip on his shoulder and ducking lower to be certain her eyes met his again.

“This.” He gestured at his face as if he knew what she were doing. “Her creation.”

Alice put the blame where she knew it didn't belong. “Belle?”

“No!” Rumplestiltskin's eyes shot wide, his teeth flashed and he looked for all the world like a wild animal ready to tear at her throat. Alice fell backward, landing hard against a tree. Her breath came fast in her chest and she could feel her face flash with fear, though she tried her hardest to stop it. Her actions sent the Dark One into a fit of sobs and the rest of his words were forced through a wobbly creaking of emotion. “No, no, no, no...” He repeated himself over and over, whimpering an occasional apology.

Finding herself again, Alice leaned closer and returned her hand to his shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Black Fairy.” Rumple mumbled. “Mother. Her darkness. She forced me to this. Ripped my fate-”

Moving both hands to his face, Alice guided the angle of it back to where his eyes could see hers. She couldn't stand for him to be this hurt. Something inside of her cracked and broke whenever days were bad for him. She thought about all of their previous conversations on the better days, thought about how often they spoke of Belle and the goodness she believed he always had inside. Alice had spent so much time with him sorting through all of who he was. She had told him that Rumplestiltskin was the person who was born, the Dark One was the curse, and the rest, the goodness, the golden light, that was someone else too...

“Tell me who you are,” she tried.

Rumple blinked, confused. He pointed at himself and said in a tiny, sing-song voice, “Dark One.”

“No,” insisted Alice, taking his shoulders again and squeezing hard. “That is what the curse is. The curse made all the Dark Ones. I want to know who _you_ are. Not what the mask wants you to be.” She gestured at his face, then moved her hand to his chest, pressing firmly to where his heart was beating. “Who you are _here_.” Not letting the span of a breath come between her words and his answer, she quickly insisted, “Don't _think_. Just say words. Who. Are. You.”

“Mister Gold,” he whispered, then whimpered as tears streamed down his cheeks. “I'm Mister Gold.”

Alice didn't force any more, just held him through his sobs, rocked him through his pain and listened to his whispers to his wife. It was getting harder, so much harder, but she was not going to give up on him. If he couldn't have Belle, he would have the next best thing. She would be the Guardian, not of the dagger, but of the man it had cursed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little of Regina's perspective on Hook and some of their past.

The early morning sun poked its way out between buildings as Regina made her way to Roni's bar. Her bar. She had to think of it that way now. The idea of running the Hyperion Heights version of Granny's was still so surreal that she often had to remind herself that this new life was actually hers and not some sort of dream. Henry, Ella, Hook, and everyone they knew were all regular patrons and she had memories of talking to each of them throughout this last curse, giving advice or just being a shoulder to cry on. Even Rumplestiltskin had come in a time or two and loosened up enough to mention the woes of being alone.

 _Rumplestiltskin,_ she thought to herself as she walked up the street. _More alone than any of us..._ Her mind drifted, wondering if he was awake, vowing to catch him and confront him about their situation. She had no idea what he had planned, but she was certain that he knew of at least five ways to free themselves from the newest curse. She also wondered if he was lingering here by choice or if he was bound to this neighborhood by the curse itself. Regina knew that knowledge of the curse's true nature would be too much of a pull on his heart for him to pass up.

As she turned the corner, Regina looked at the sign that clung to the building, and the two arrows over Roni's name. The image comforted her, wrapping her in the spiritual embrace of fond memories. At least she had some part of her lost love. 

The scuffle of leather against brick startled her out of memories of Robin, and Regina stopped short as she realized there was a man standing near the entrance to her bar. Just beyond the door, Hook was leaning casually against the outer wall, eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady. It was obvious that the man was asleep on his feet and she blinked as if the action would somehow reset the scene in front of her, but instead of suddenly waking, the cursed detective remained in place, a folder clutched tightly to his chest.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, Pirate?” She murmured the words affectionately under her breath as she stepped closer, making sure her keys jangled loudly to announce her presence.

The sound woke Rogers, who lurched forward and glared angrily at his surroundings until his eyes met hers and softened. “Roni,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, it's... been a long night.”

“I can tell,” she answered with a smile. “Want to come in?”

The detective nodded. “That would be lovely.”

Regina fiddled with the lock as an excuse to examine Rogers out of the corner of her eye. She had seen him work long hours before, but she had never seen him like this. Though his clothes and outward appearance implied he had just left home for another day at the office, the exhaustion on his face suggested the opposite. “Everything okay?”

Hook shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “Is it that obvious?” The light tone he was attempting fell very flat and he sighed. “I just... had to get out of the office for a while,” he tried again.

“Ah,” Regina grinned as she finished with the lock. “Weaver's at it again, is he?” She stepped out of the way and gestured for him to enter first, then followed, shutting and locking the door behind them. When no answer came, she turned to see Rogers leaning heavily on the bar. “I've got a few hours before opening, but do you want something?”

Rogers closed his eyes and, rubbed his temple. “You sell coffee by the barrel?”

She chuckled at how much pirate was still left in the man, even though he didn't know it. “That bad, huh?”

“Bad enough,” grumbled Rogers with a sigh. He looked from the file in his hand to the ceiling and then glanced around the room. “Do you know what? Can I just take over your side room?” He angled a thumb over his shoulder to the patio-like seating area that could be closed off for private parties. “I've got some files to go through and some quiet would really be a help right now.”

Regina nodded, letting a warm smile grow on her face. “Sure,” she told him as she reached out to squeeze his arm. “I'll bring your coffee when it's ready. Free refills all day.”

Rogers gave a half smile that felt more like a requirement than genuine gratitude, then left the bar and dropped into one of the chairs in the other room. Watching him flip through his file in frustration, the question of Rumplestiltskin resurfaced in Regina's mind. How could the man be awake when he was treating Hook worse than anyone else? 

* * *

“You look like an animal at the zoo,” Regina told Hook as she approached camp. The words stopped the pirate's pacing only long enough for him to take a single breath before his feet were in motion again. She frowned in concern. “Robin said you had a letter from Alice... Did something happen?”

This stopped his frantic back and forth movement and caused him to shake a paper at her as if it were proof of everything that had gone wrong in the world. “She wants me to meet to him.”

Regina blinked. Alice was involved with her niece, not a man. What sort of meeting could he possibly be this worked up about? “Meet with whom?”

“The Crocodile.” Hook dropped his hand to his side, slapping the paper against his leg before looking down at it in remorse and tenderly running his fingers along the surface as if apologizing for his brutal treatment of it.

“Ah,” she answered, understanding his frustration. Her mind sought words that would somehow sound supportive, but could only come up with, “and you don't want to.”

“No one should be spending time with that monster,” Hook hissed. “I don't care if Alice is this bloody 'Guardian' that he is looking for. He needs to look some place else and leave my daughter alone. He's put some spell on her,” the man insisted, handing the letter over for Regina to read. “She is convinced he isn't really the Dark One.”

Regina scanned the writing, skipping over the usual ramblings and personal touches of a private conversation, until she found Rumple's name near the bottom of the page. The final paragraph was in fact a plea for Hook to seek out Rumplestiltskin, but it didn't mention anything about his being the Dark One. She caught sight of Gideon's name, and the mention of fatherhood, but reading further felt more like an intrusion on Rumple's privacy than an act of helping Hook. “Nothing in here talks about the curse,” Regina said gently as she folded the paper and returned it to him. “Maybe she really is just looking for help for her friend.”

“He _isn't_ her friend,” growled Hook. “He's using her, just like he uses everyone else. I won't have my daughter be filled with darkness just to give a failed Savior one final chance at glory!”

Regina shook her head, unable to believe that they were talking about the same man. The old Rumple would manipulate Alice, but certainly not the new one. Then again, if Alice believed Rumple was afraid or desperate, she _might_ actually be in danger, as Hook suggested. Unable to decide for herself, she let out a sigh and let the Pirate make his own decision. “Who do you trust? The word of the Dark One, or the word of your daughter?”

“Alice, of course. But-”

Regina cut him off. “Then why don't you investigate for yourself? You've proven more than capable of spying before,” she teased as her eyebrows raised at the memory of having her own conversations interrupted suddenly, “so, go spy on _him_. See if he _has_ cast a spell on her and make your own choice from there, but I think you'll find that Rumplestiltskin _is_ the man everyone is telling you about.”

Hook nodded slowly and turned his head in the direction of Alice's distant cottage. His hand reached for his sword, caressing the hilt as if anxious to draw blood. “I suppose we will see...” 

* * *

His first attempt at spying had turned quickly into a basic threat. What he had heard from Alice and what he had seen of the Dark One's actions told him that the man _did_ intend to use her to meet his own end, for the sake of his own needs, without thought of anyone else. The Dark One's ridiculous suggestion that Hook hadn't considered the wishes of his own daughter was further proof of the man's self centered goals and had locked Killian into a determined frenzy to separate Alice from the madman at all costs, a process which had begun with drawing his sword and threatening the other man's life.

In his letters to Alice after that meeting, Killian had begged her not to maintain this unhealthy friendship and to stop talking to the Dark One all together. He was manipulative, Hook had explained, and that combined with the amount of power at the man's fingertips could never be a combination best suited to trust. The Crocodile would continue to pressure her, continue to woo her with his false kindness, until he got exactly what he wanted, then leave her, as surely as her mother had left her in the tower.

She hadn't listened, she had trusted her instinct over his words, and now he was left to read about her experience in the Cave of the Departed. Tears filled his eyes and fell to the page as every delicate curve of Alice's handwriting pushed its way into his heart to prove just how strong she truly was. 

_...I wanted to help him, Papa. I can't explain why or how, but some part of some tiny thing inside of me knows that this was the right thing to do. I know he didn't do things the right way, but he's afraid, so very afraid that he will never see Belle again. Being afraid makes him do things before he can think about them. It has something to do with his fate and his curse coming together into a massive fireball that simply burns every good intention to dust._

_We know this pain, Papa. We know it in our hearts, every time we get too close we feel it as certainly as he feels the distance between himself and Belle. She was his anchor. Without her, he is adrift in a giant storm the likes of which we have never seen..._

Killian finished reading his daughter's pleas for understanding and closed his eyes, the past battling her words until his mind was so full of confusion that he could barely sort out what were his own, true emotions and what were simple memories. Gratitude dashed against the rocks of hatred, then receded and rushed forward again like an incoming tide on a rocky shore.

Suddenly a light touch fell on his shoulder, calming the storm. “Is Alice all right?” The words came from Regina and for once Hook actually welcomed the intrusion.

“The Dark One,” Killian mumbled. “He... He tricked Alice into taking the dagger...” Searching for words that seemed unnatural, he finished as he swallowed down his pride, “but he wouldn't let her complete the spell. She says he wants to find some other way...”

The fingers gave a squeeze, then released him and pulled away. “Understanding Rumplestiltskin... _any_ Rumplestiltskin... takes time,” she admitted. “As does accepting his intentions.”

“Aye,” whispered Killian as he turned to face her. “That I am beginning to understand.” But by the time he had opened his eyes, Regina had gone, leaving him alone by the campfire as the first snow of the season began to fall around him.

Taking a long breath, he gazed at the drifting crystals and couldn't help wondering how long it would take for his own heart to drift along with the others and settle into the collection of belief that surrounded him. _Only one way to find out, I suppose,_ he thought to himself as he stood and headed to his tent, where pen and paper awaited the chance to become another letter to his Starfish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Henry and Jacinda bond over the repairs to the food truck, Weaver begins questioning the witnesses to the fire at Cluck's, but his motives are not those of a simple detective.

Rumplestiltskin eased his car to the curb and cut the engine. Across the street, a single, beat up truck slumbered in the empty lot it called home. He reached for the evidence bag in the seat beside him and wrapped his hand around the metal form inside. The dagger felt strange wrapped in plastic, but once he had it settled in his inner pocket, the familiar brush of it against his chest and the off-balanced weight of his clothing felt so right that it canceled out all else. He was whole again, yet so very empty. In the hospital, he had imagined the reunion with the source of his addiction would be one filled with relief, instead he discovered that the pull of the dagger's power was no more fulfilling than having a snack when you weren't hungry. He caught himself repeatedly checking on the dagger, not because he craved it's power, but because he could hardly feel it's presence and if it were lost, his chances of becoming mortal, of joining Belle, would vanish forever.

If only Belle could know how far he had truly come. Here he was in a world without magic and instead of expending time and energy to find a way to draw magic to him, all he wanted to do was be rid of it. The desperation to be free was what consumed him now and it had caused him to throw caution out the window. He was determined to test every unnatural resident of Hyperion Heights for the qualities of a Guardian, starting with everyone involved in the arson case. The fire at Clucks would provide the perfect cover. All he would have to do is put the dagger into their hands under the guise of presenting evidence, then stand back and see what happened next.

From where his car was parked, Rumple could see Henry and Ella clearly as they circled around from behind the truck and began peering under the vehicle's hood. The words of the Seer crawled out of history and echoed in his mind. “The boy will be your undoing...” Though he had once thought those words to be a threat, he now clung to them as a blessing. His grandson had the heart of the truest believer, was the son of a Savior, never turned from the side of good, and was destined to somehow defeat the Dark One. All of these factors combined were surely proof that Rumplestiltskin's quest would end here.

Watching the couple shift between intense concentration to their task and laughter over something that was said, Rumple found that he couldn't make himself open the door and cross the road. As they chuckled, Jacinda playfully pushed her way into Henry's space and Henry pushed back, shoulder against shoulder, obviously falling in love with each other all over again. Immediately his mind turned to Belle as she perched on the edge of his table at the Dark Castle, nudging him in the same way so many years ago, and all of the times they had repeated the motion since. He froze, his hand moving to the dagger and clutching it tightly. “I can't do this to him,” he mumbled to himself as much as to the part of Belle that lived on inside of him and beyond. “I won't deny him what we were denied for so long...”

Instead of approaching them, Rumple watched the two work, making up for the time he had missed with Henry once their family had been reunited in Ella's realm. He could see all the obvious signs of the couple's love for each other, but he could also see how the curse of being strangers was hurting them. Henry's confidence had been ripped away and knowing his grandson suffered as the result of something he couldn't control only made Rumplestiltskin more determined than ever to seek a loophole that would save _everyone_ from what he knew was coming.

* * *

“Okay, try it now!”

Jacinda nervously bit her lip and tried for what had to be the hundredth time to cut the power on to the truck that she sat in. Eyes shut with hope, she clutched the steering wheel tightly as if she could squeeze life into it through sheer force of will. This time it had to work, it just had to.

Nothing happened.

“Damn.” She heard the word before a loud thump forced her eyes open, and wondered if Henry had hit his head or was just letting out his frustrations on the stubborn machine. Just as she was about to investigate, he walked around to the door and nodded. “One more time,” he insisted. “This has _got_ to do it.”

“Henry, we've been working for hours.” Jacinda fussed. She realized how much she sounded like Lucy when the girl was told to finish her homework, and straightened herself a little in an attempt to adjust her attitude. “Why don't we take a break? Get some lunch?” She tried not to look too nervous at asking, or look too hopeful that he would agree. 

“I'm not leaving here until this is done,” the man answered sharply, glaring through space at the wires that neither of them could see from this angle, but both could sketch from memory after all of their time staring at them. 

Jacinda nodded slowly, trying to ignore the quiver in her chest at what felt like a rejection. “Okay.” She took in a long breath and leaned forward on the steering wheel, resting her head in the space between where her hands gripped it. “So what do we try next?”

Henry's expression changed instantly from frustration to concern. “Hey,” he said, stepping up to her level. “I'm sorry. It's frustrating me too. I've never had to work with a truck like this before.” His hand reached out to touch her arm, lingering longer than it should have for two people who claimed not to love each other, but he didn't take it away and Jacinda wasn't about to complain. “It's like the thing is cursed!”

Jacinda laughed. “All right,” she insisted with renewed determination, “Then we need some magic words or something.”

Looking skyward, the author threw his hands up in the air and said “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo!” just as she turned on the power and the truck lights flickered to life.

Eyes wide, they both let out a whoop of joy. Jumping from the driver's seat, Jacinda checked the back of the truck for power and shouted, “We did it!” before rushing to the door and throwing herself into Henry's open arms. He caught her tightly, stepped from the vehicle and spun her around once before setting her down on the pavement. “Did that actually work?” Jacinda looked from Henry to the truck.

“I'm not complaining if it did,” the man said happily, his mouth close enough to her that she could feel the breath of his words dance over her ear and into her hair. She turned back to gaze into his eyes. They were both covered in grease and grime, but she wanted nothing other than to catch her fingers in his hair, pull his head down, and plant a long, celebratory kiss on his waiting lips. The moment was broken by the loud slam of a car door and the approaching form of the car's owner.

“Detective Weaver.” Jacinda put on a smile that she didn't quite feel as Henry's arms released her and fell limply to his sides. She swallowed and tried to prepare herself for what was to come, certain that the older man was here to question her about her illegal use of Cluck's the day of the fire.

“Miss Vidrio,” Weaver greeted as he casually strode to where they stood, nodding at Henry, but not speaking to him. The detective seemed like he was stalking something, his eyes scanning their surroundings and occasionally lingering on Henry and the truck. He seemed like a hungry predator after it's prey. “I have some follow up questions about the fire that I need to ask you.” he finally announced, holding up an acordioned folder as evidence of his claim.

She took a deep breath, hoping her worry wasn't as obvious as it felt. “All right,” Jacinda answered with a nod, tucking her lips tightly together with determination. She might as well get this over with, especially with Henry here as a witness.

Weaver smiled a reptilian grin and leaned closer to whisper. “Let's start with the facts... I know you were illegally selling your own food using the restaurant's equipment.” He glanced at Henry, then turned a mischievous grin back at her. 

“I can expla-”

The man held up a hand to silence her. “ _But_ ,” he insisted sharply, “you should know that doesn't appear on the official record.”

Jacinda's eyes went wide and darted from the detective to Henry and back again. She couldn't believe her ears and from Henry's shocked expression, his surprise equaled her own. This was the cop with the worst reputation in Hyperion Heights and he was actually helping her? Maybe the people who talked about him had it all wrong. 

“What's the catch?” Beside her, Henry frowned, his mind reaching the same conclusions hers had come to.

“There isn't one,” the detective insisted, his voice sounding sincere, though he swallowed hard and a flash of something crossed his face, then vanished just as quickly. Was it hurt? Sadness? Jacinda couldn't be sure. “As far as I am concerned, and as far as any public record will show, the only crime was the fire itself.”

Jacinda nodded, gratitude washing over her. “Thank you.” 

Weaver waved her off, then turned an expectant look at Henry. “So... unless you were involved with the events leading up to the fire...”

Henry shook his head quickly in dispute of the accusation. “Right. I'll just... Get things packed up so we can get lunch...” He hovered near Jacinda until she nodded at him, then entered the truck, turning it off.

“So tell me, where is your partner in this little venture?” Weaver nodded in the direction of the clanks and bangs that were the result of Henry finishing his work and putting away tools.

For a moment, Jacinda thought the detective was talking about the man moving around behind them. Was he a partner? His help felt more than just friendly somehow, it felt natural, as if the two of them had been solving problems together for years. Snapping out of her shock, Jacinda blinked her eyes quickly to focus her mind on the question and realized who Weaver was asking for. “Sabine? We're working in shifts today. Henry was helping me with the electrical system, then she was going to be doing the last of the clean up. She should be here any minute.” 

The detective nodded. He seemed unsettled somehow. His eyes followed Henry more than they focused on her and she wondered if the author wasn't under investigation for something. After a moment or two, Weaver casually guided her further from the truck and pulled some papers from the folder, flipping through them. “We have established that whoever started the fire used a knife to break in to the back of the kitchen. Did you hear anything? Perhaps a loud noise? Something breaking or falling?”

Jacinda shook her head, folding her arms across her chest. “No,” she said honestly, trying to think back. There hadn't been any noise at all, just the sudden smell of smoke. “We were both up at the front when it happened.”

“I see...” Weaver made a few marks on one of the papers, glanced up, then flipped through some others. “Did any of the employees have anything against the manager?”

“Louie.” Jacinda huffed and shrugged, trying to hold in her instant reaction at the thought of employees _not_ having something against him. “The man is a jerk, but I don't know that anyone would want to hurt him, or the business. Most of the people that work for him _really_ need their jobs. To have Clucks shut down would hurt them as much as anyone else.”

Weaver nodded, flipped through a few more papers, skimmed over something and then returned everything to the file. “Just one more thing, Ms. Vidrio... A knife was found nearby. Since you were a previous employee, I thought you might be able to identify it...” He reached into his jacket and pulled out an evidence bag, the contents of which were most certainly _not_ what she expected.

Jacinda frowned. “I've never seen _that_ before.” The blade was more of a theatrical prop than a knife and it's design was much more intricate than anything that could be found at Clucks. “We certainly never used anything like that when I worked there. What would it cut?” She let out a mild snort at the idea.

“Well, it managed to break the lock of the back door,” grumbled Weaver. “Clearly it was good for something.” He thrust the bag at her. “Perhaps if you examine it more closely...”

Jacinda tucked her hands tighter into her armpits and shook her head. “If that's evidence, I don't think I should be handling it.” She tried to keep a straight face and cool expression. Was he trying to set her up? All he would need were her finger prints on a piece of evidence and that would be that.

The detective laughed. “Oh, come now, Ms. Vidrio. It isn't as if the knife is cursed.” His grin widened, becoming something that felt unnatural somehow. “Hold it and see if a memory comes back to you.” Though he tried to act confident about what he was doing, Jacinda thought something in his eyes showed a fear that gave away an ulterior motive.

“Hey guys.” Henry's voice broke in to their conversation as he walked back from the truck. “Everything okay?”

Weaver quickly shoved the evidence bag back into his pocket and nodded. “Yes, I think that will be all.” He gave them both a smile that sent a shiver down Jacinda's spine. “Since you say your business partner is on her way, I think I'll just wait here for her to arrive. Save time coming back again later.”

“Well you're in luck,” Henry answered cheerily. “That's her headed this way now.” He nodded up the walk at Sabine, who was striding to the lot's entrance.

“Then you two should go on to your meal,” the detective insisted as he met Jacinda's eyes with a piercing glare. His voice lowered as he leaned closer to her. “Just remember what the report will say,” he instructed sharply as he left the couple and swaggered off confidently to meet Sabine.

Henry placed a hand on Jacinda's back and the warmth of it made her rub her arms to match the heat of his contact. “Was he threatening you?”

All she could do was shake her head. “I don't know,” she said finally, pressing back into the security of his touch. As Henry guided her out of the lot, she glanced back at the truck and caught Weaver's eyes following them down the street.

* * *

As he introduced himself to Sabine, Rumple watched his grandson leave. He had been reckless with the dagger and Henry had almost seen it before he left. The author certainly would have recognized an object from his own book and that would have made things much more complicated. It might have even put Weaver's sanity into question, which Rumple really didn't need at a time when he was trying so desperately to settle into character.

“Detective?” Tiana's words didn't break his thoughts, but her face intersecting his field of vision did. “You were going to ask me some questions and I don't mean to be rude, but I have a _lot_ of work to do with the truck, so...”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded and repeated his show from before, skimming papers and jotting down her answers to his questions wherever there was space on the page. He could hardly focus on what he was writing, but since these were fakes he had created and not the real paperwork on the case it made no difference. When he finally ended his charade and held out the evidence bag, Tiana recoiled, just as Ella had done. “This was the knife they found,” he told her. “I was hoping you could identify it.”

Sabine shook her head sharply, her brow wrinkling with confusion. “I've never seen anything like that before. Certainly not in a kitchen.”

“Well that's the point,” Rumple hissed, trying to hold in his frustration. “It was found _outside_ the kitchen, in a dumpster. Are you certain you've never seen it before? Perhaps when you were taking out trash or-”

“Believe me,” Sabine declared emphatically. “I'd remember something like that.”

Rumple rolled his eyes. “Perhaps if you could just hold it for a closer look...” 

“You know, that's okay.” Sabine actually took a step back from him, glancing around the area as if she were looking for someone to come and save her from the situation.

He was starting to let his desperation get the best of him, he could feel it boiling up to the surface, but couldn't let go of the hope that if she just took the dagger he would see for himself if she had the potential he sought. After a long breath to calm his frustrations, he offered the bag again. “They say muscle memory is better than what the mind can recall...”

“It would take a hell of a lot of forgetting to not recognize that knife. If it even _is_ a knife.” Sabine shook her head, and turned toward the truck. “I'm sorry I can't be any more help. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

“But-” Anything Rumple would have said as Weaver was cut short by the distant cry of someone in distress.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” The words shot rapidly into the air; so rapidly that they were almost joined as one. The cadence, the tone, the echo of them pulled at Rumple's heart. The sound was so familiar it nearly broke him and yet it was impossible that he could have heard what he did. It was exactly what Belle would say to him when he was most frustrated, just as she would cup his head between her hands and guide his eyes to meet hers.

 _Belle..._ Quickly tucking the dagger into his jacket, he turned to Sabine. “My apologies for keeping you,” he said in a rush. “I think I'm needed elsewhere.” Without giving her any opportunity to respond, he darted away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice's deeds cause a chain of events that accidentally bring Rumple to the better path, but was it truly an accident or a nudge from someone else? In the past, Hook learns who the Dark One really is.

“I bet...” Todd looked around the streets and finally pointed to a curbside mailbox. “Bet you can't jump up there in one try.” He and Oliver had been challenging each other for the last half hour as their group walked down the street. The game wasn't anything new to Tilly, who often spent her mornings wandering the city with them, looking for what they called “business opportunities." Oliver prided himself on his catlike abilities and Todd enjoyed testing him. Todd himself, was sly as a fox, which came in handy on the streets.

“Sure, I can do it!” Oliver's confidence shone through his beaming smile and he backed up to take a running leap at the box, launching himself at it and landing almost squarely on top. “See. No problem.”

“Are they always like this?”

Tilly smiled at the newest member of their group, who insisted on being called Copper even after the others had complained it sounded too much like the cops they were trying to avoid. “No,” she said cheerfully, “sometimes things get completely insane.”

Copper shook his head. “If this isn't crazy, I'd like to know what is.”

“Stick around long enough,” Tilly assured him, “and you will.” Her eyes darted around as they walked, trying to identify the source of a sort of fizzing sound that felt so close, it was as if her hair was making it. The pops and crackles were like cola in a can, but softer, as if the can were made of cotton or clouds. The whole thing made absolutely no sense to her at all and her frustration was building.

“What's wrong?” Copper's eyes tried to follow hers and he began to stiffen with obvious worry.

Tilly gave one of her famous grins, all teeth and joy. “Oh, nothing. I just... I keep hearing something... Like fizz in a can of pop. Can't you hear it?”

Copper tilted his head one way, then the other, intent on his mission. Finally he said, “Nope.”

“Who's making the next bet?” Oliver interrupted, taking in each member of the group, one at a time.

Todd pointed at Tilly. “It ought to be her, since I _know_ she got cash from Weaver this morning. I saw her coming out of the station.”

Tilly held up her hands to stop the others, who all started talking at once. “I had to run an errand for him, that's all.” She put one hand to her eyes to shield them from the sun and scanned the area for the increasingly annoying sound that seemed to be consuming her brain. It was starting to give her a headache.

“We _all_ run errands for him,” scoffed Todd. “He's like the pied piper of Hyperion Heights.”

“From the way he uses the runaways,” said Copper. “It's more like he's Peter Pan.”

The group rambled on, but Tilly didn't hear, she stopped walking once they got to one of the restaurants with outdoor seating and actually contemplated buying something _just_ for the ability to sit down. She didn't feel faint, but at the same time she was certain her head was drifting farther from her feet and would start floating away any minute.

“The point is,” said Oliver as he watched a piece of trash flutter toward them on the sidewalk. “She got paid today and we didn't.” He jumped sideways suddenly, pinning the paper under his feet before picking it up to drop in a nearby trash can. “ _I_ think she owes us lunch.”

“All right. Fine.” Tilly snorted in a frustration that she didn't really feel and couldn't at all explain. “You wanted a bet...? I bet you can't make that paper glow.” She pointed at the trash in Oliver's hand.

“Aw, come on. That's easy!” Todd insisted, snatching the paper before Oliver could drop it, then picking up an empty glass from one of the restaurant's patio tables. He glanced skyward, then took Oliver by the shoulders and guided him to a specific spot. “Stand here,” he instructed as he positioned him, then returned the paper to his hand. “Hold it out.”

Oliver did as he was told and Todd used the glass to brighten the paper, focusing the sun's light on it. “There, see. It's glowing.”

“That's not the _whole_ paper, though!”

Tilly couldn't tell who made the complaint. The fizz in her head was getting sharper and sharper, blocking out everything else. It felt like she was both drowning and catching on fire all at once. The world around her got darker and the light from the glass got brighter and brighter, until it felt like she lived in that one tiny spot of light, with nothing but pitch blackness outside of that glow.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” She shouted the words, as her eyes suddenly refocused and she realized smoke was rising from the paper. Grabbing a full pitcher of water from a server's stand, she tossed the contents at Oliver, splashing his arm and everything behind him.

The commotion drew the restaurant owner outside and he frowned severely at the cluster of young adults who had just disturbed the peaceful meals of his customers. “What is wrong with you kids, huh?” He bellowed, hands on hips. “What are you doing out here?”

“Just... Just playing around...” Copper stammered, his voice cracking and taking on a whimper that seemed almost puppy-like. “We didn't mean anything.”

“Didn't mean anything? Look at my board! Look at this table! You take things that don't belong to you and try to set fires with them?” He glared down at the cluster of boys, his eyes sharp like daggers. “Maybe you're the ones who set that fire at the chicken place, hmm?”

Tilly's eyes went wide. Suddenly the sound of fizz was gone, replaced by the clarity of what they were facing. Thinking on her feet, she threw herself into her most charming character. “We-ee-ll...” She pulled the word out into a melody as she stepped up to the restaurant owner's side. “You see these young men were having a bit of fun with each other out there by the curb and I thought it was getting a little dangerous, so-”

“What seems to be the trouble here?” Weaver's familiar voice interrupted as he rushed up, placing himself between the owner and her friends.

“As I was just explaining to....” She checked the man's name tag and gestured to his chest. “Tony here...”

“These hooligans were outside my place, trying to set fires.” The burly Italian interjected, not having any of her nonsense. He scowled at Weaver just as he had done with the boys. 

Tilly held up a finger to the sky, her smile still bright on her face as she desperately tried to sway the situation to their favor. “Well, that _is_ a long story, and actually, I think we saved your sign.” She glanced at it to take in the damage. “It got a bit washed, but I can remake it. Just point me to the chalk!”

“Arson is going around this part of town,” accused the owner, his eyes practically shooting lightening bolts through her. “Or hadn't you heard?”

Weaver held up one hand, revealing his badge with the other. “I'm working the case at Clucks,” he said. “And I can assure you that these four had nothing to do with it.”

Tony's eyes widened. “So who did it then?” His tone said he didn't believe the detective in the slightest.

“Ah, well because the fire is still under investigation, that information can't be given out to the public just yet, but I assure you these young men are innocent.” Tilly raised her eyebrow and tilted her head to get Weaver's attention, making him add, “And the girl as well.”

Suspicion still thick on his face, the restaurant owner allowed himself to be guided back inside by Weaver, who was promising to settle the man's concerns as best he could under the circumstances of his supposed restrictions. As she watched the door shut behind them, Tilly couldn't help but wonder if they really _did_ know the culprit or if the detective was just telling tales to get the attention off of their backs.

“That was close.” Todd whispered, staring at the door.

“Yeah,” humphed Tilly as she snatched the glass from his hand and returned it to the table. “Thanks and all.”

He pouted at her, crossing his arms and turning his eyes to slits of anger. “It was _your_ idea!”

“Well, I didn't tell you to set anything on fire-” Tilly leaned closer, but pulled back again when she heard the restaurant door open. She could hear the others scramble away behind her as Detective Weaver took her elbow and guided her away from the building, to stand at the curb.

“Do you mind telling me what this was all about?” His accent suddenly felt strange to her, as if it was shifting between right and wrong.

Tilly shrugged. “They were just playing around, making bets.”

“And thought they should start a fire?!” Weaver quietly growled at her, his face so close to hers that she could see the flecks of color in his eyes.

“Well they didn't _mean_ to,” she insisted, trying to defend actions that she simply couldn't explain. “I don't know what happened. I started feeling all fizzy in my head and the next thing I knew I was telling them to make the paper glow...” She could tell Weaver wasn't listening, his attention had been drawn back to the building, but she couldn't stop her rambling. “Then everything went from white to gold and-”

“What?” The word was hard and hit her like a punch in the gut. Weaver's head spun sharply back in her direction and she jumped away from the surprise caused by the combination of sight and sound. Immediately a new sound filled her head, the sound of a horn.

* * *

Just knowing one was approaching the Dark One's home was enough to stand one's hairs on end, but the fog that surrounded it in the early morning light sent chills down Killian's spine. As he had done so many times in the past, his feet planted themselves in the leafy ground and refused to move forward as he scanned his surroundings for signs of the Crocodile. Though he had taken Regina's advice and spied on Rumplestiltskin elsewhere, this would be his first visit to the man's home and the thought of meeting the Dark One in his own territory was unsettling, especially since he now knew exactly what that home looked like.

The building wasn't what he expected it would be. It seemed to be part cave, part hovel and looked as if its owner cared little for appearances. The place was more like a beggar's shack than a place belonging to the most powerful man in all the realms. It made no sense that Rumplestiltskin would actually _choose_ to live here, he was a man who craved luxury, the simple life didn't fit his style. 

Realizing that his mind was traveling to the past, Killian shook his head, trying to physically clear it of his previous expectations. In protecting Alice, Rumplestiltskin had proven that he was worthy of the Savior title that his family so often pinned on him. He had shown kindness and generosity multiple times, and had even accepted Killian's offer of friendship at the start of winter, but they had mostly been communicating through Alice up to this point and those old feelings of fear and hatred were emerging unbidden now that he was here for an actual visit.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered to himself, hoping the sound of his own voice would push him forward. “You're here for Alice...” That one thought was enough to move him past his insecurities and nudge him toward the door.

The thick wood glided open with surprising ease, revealing a deeply shadowed interior, which was as simple as the exterior implied. Killian hovered at the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. The small space had a table and two chairs in one corner and a spinning wheel in another. The tightly packed dirt of the floor was swept clean of even the tiniest pebble, and the place seemed well kept, if haphazardly put together. Stones from the surrounding area had been gathered and quickly sealed together into a chimney that didn't appeal to the eye, but did seem to actually function, though the fire within had burned down to embers. Other than the scent of fresh smoke, there seemed to be no sign of the building's inhabitant.

“Hello?” Hook tentatively moved forward, unsure of what to expect. Would the place be protected by a spell that would zap any intruders who dared enter? Taking in a long breath, he waited for the crack of lightning or flash of magic, but none came. “Show yourself, Crocodile!” The words were harsh, filled with the emotions of the past and Killian rubbed his forehead in frustration. “Look,” he said in a softer tone, frustrated with himself more than anything else. “I'm sorry. Old habits...”

The only response was the whistle of the wind as it cleared the fog from the woods. Expecting the door to snap shut behind him, Killian turned to catch it and saw a wardrobe standing against the back wall. The object seemed out of place. It had more charm than anything else in the room and included strange hooks on the outside, several of which held up a dress made in blues and creams. Blinking, Hook approached it, staring at the fabric and letting his eyes wander over the folds. Though the design was simple, the quality of the cloth and the workmanship was exquisite. Unable to resist the urge to touch it, his hand crept forward as the pirate in him quickly calculated a fine price to be asked for it at sale.

“Uh, uh, uh!”

The impish voice made Killian jump. Jerking his hand away, he spun to see a cloaked figure standing at the door, arms full of kindling. “Dark One,” he managed while taking in a breath to steady himself. “I didn't think you were here.”

“Not expecting to find me in my own home on a day you said you would visit?” The sing song words came in a playful tone, but the rest was delivered with sad sarcasm. “How reassuring.”

Killian opened his mouth to mumble an apology, but the Dark One flicked his hand dismissively as he crossed the room to the quickly dying fire and went about giving it life again. An uneasy silence filled the space between them and Killian found his eyes wandering back to the dress. Finally he could no longer contain his curiosity. “Where did you find this?”

Rumplestiltskin at first let out a sound of confusion, then chuckled. “I didn't,” he replied as he fussed with the fire. Killian could see him at the edge of his vision, placing sticks and logs just so, then puffing gentle breaths until the flicker of light began to dance on the wood. Once the flames had grown to satisfactory size, the Dark One stood and crossed the space to stand beside the wardrobe. “I made it. For Alice.” 

“I appreciate your concern, but I can provide for my own daughter,” Killian huffed. “We don't need magical craftwork to-”

“No, no, no,” the Dark One hissed. “I _made_ it.” The correction was made clearer with a quick gesture to the spinning wheel. “I _did_ have skills _before_ the Dark Curse turned me into this... mmm... crocodile.” He smiled at his final choice of words, but it wasn't the smile of someone who enjoyed to poke fun, it was a genuine smile, full of kindness and understanding. 

Killian closed his eyes, realizing he had offended again. “I'm sorry.” His eyes opened and met the reptilian set that looked his way, trying to put all the honesty of his apology into his gaze. “I know some of your story from the others and I _have_ accepted that you are a different man from the one I knew, it's just that-”

“The past is hard to escape,” mumbled the other man, staring at the fingers on his hand as if they were foreign objects.

Unsure of what to say next, Killian turned back to the dress again. “It's exactly the sort of thing she would wear,” he said. as the imagined Alice trying it on and fussing over the usefulness of it. “I'm certain she will love it.”

The Dark One let out an answering hum of agreement, then offered cheerily, “And it has pockets. All girls need pockets.” His body shifted in a combination of playfulness and unease, but his voice saddened as he added in a distracted whisper, “I learned that from my wife...” 

Just as Killian opened his mouth to reply, Rumplestiltkin almost literally flitted away, his posture and tone twisting into that of a playful imp again. “But it's not finished,” he cooed over his shoulder. “So no touching.” The Dark One picked up a chair in each hand and arranged them in front of the fire, then gestured at them in offering.

Killian looked from the dress to the Dark One and back again, trying to understand his host. Rumplestitskin had always jumped from one mood to another as quickly as anyone could snap their fingers, but now that he knew something of the man's past, Killian felt that these sudden shifts were more predictable than they appeared. 

Perhaps reading the expression on his face, Rumplestiltskin finally spoke, gazing critically around the room. “It's not what you expected.”

“No,” answered Killian honestly as he approached the chairs and sat. “Though, I'm beginning to realize that maybe I should have...” He sighed at his inability to find words. “I... I know that Alice wanted me to get to know you,” he said at last. “But I don't even know where to begin...” Letting his eyes wander to the flames, his mind played over the past few minutes, then a sudden realization hit him and his head snapped back in frustration as he shouted to the ceiling, “and I'm _such_ a bloody idiot!”

Rumplestiltskin's head tipped to the side, yet he said nothing, only waited calmly for an explanation.

Killian waved his hand at the hearth. “While I was accusing you of sorcery, you were building a fire with your own hands.”

The Dark One made a dismissive sound and waved at the air as if clearing smoke from in front of his face. “You are used to someone addicted to power,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “I am no longer that man.” He shrugged. “I understand.”

“You were _never_ that man,” insisted Hook with a frown. “The Dark One from my realm is...” He searched for a way to politely describe the duplicate of the man that sat in front of him, but couldn't force anything appropriate to come from his lips.

Rumplestiltskin pointed a finger in his direction, his expression more serious than Killian had ever seen. “The Dark One you know is _made_ from me,” he explained. “More than any of our Wish selves, he and I were one and the same. The same past, the same curse, the same addiction to magic, until...” As his words drifted away, he picked up an iron rod to poke at the fire. At the same time his voice shifted from a man's harsh tone to a child's lonely whisper. “...the wish.”

Killian watched the Dark One silently fuss over a fire that didn't need tending and wondered where the courses of their stories changed. This Rumplestiltskin acted as if he knew much more than he was letting on, but wasn't that the nature of the one from his realm as well? “If it _is_ such an addiction,” he wondered aloud, changing the subject to redirect the man's attention from pain to the present, “how did you manage to break it?”

Rumplestiltskin answered immediately. “Gideon.”

Hook pushed the man's family tree to the front of his mind, tacking unfamiliar names to various branches until he came up with what he thought he had heard the others say. “Your son. With Belle?” 

“Yes,” said Rumplestiltskin with a sigh. “It's amazing what power our children have over us.” He lifted his arms as if cradling an infant and spoke down to the memory he held there. “When he was returned to us, I couldn't put him down. I wanted to do everything for him. When he would cry I would go to him... I changed him, bathed him, fed him... Belle...” The man swallowed down his emotion. “She used to complain that I never let her do anything.”

Killian felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth as he imagined the Dark One holding a baby and cooing softly at it as he rocked it to sleep. The image came quickly because he could so easily remember holding his own daughter as he sang lullabies and settled her gently into her cradle. “When I first saw Alice, I had no idea what I would do, then I named her. Hearing my own voice call this tiny thing by my mother's name...” He closed his eyes to better see her little face and hear the quiet burbles she made. “In that moment I knew everything.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded. “Yes. Fathers... We do.” He said nothing more, simply stared into the fire, leaving the response up for Killian's interpretation.

The pirate was, however, suddenly distracted by a different curiosity, something that he had never discussed with another soul. Now, in this small space, talking with a man who had been judged more often than any he had known, it felt the right time to find his answers. “How old is your boy now?”

The Dark One shrugged. “Time moved differently for him, but... Alice's age. More or less.”

Killian nodded, then leaned forward with eagerness. “How did you manage to survive teething?” The answer didn't really matter, of course, since both Gideon and Alice were grown, but the dilemma had bothered him so much when Alice was little, that he couldn't help but seek the answers to the sorrows he had held in his heart for all of these years. The memory of Alice came to him so easily, her face red from screaming as her round, moist eyes gazed at him as if begging for relief.

Rumplestiltskin's laugh broke the illusion and pulled him back to the chair by the fire. “All of Gideon's toys went straight to the freezer when it started,” he said as if the answer were so obvious it might as well have been dangling in front of him.

Hook raised an eyebrow, unsure of what this could possibly mean. Was this 'freezer' like a locker? Did they simply throw everything away? He tried to imagine taking all of Alice's things from her just because she wanted to chew on them and couldn't bear the thought.

The Dark One must have read the puzzlement in his face, because he smiled and shook his head. “It's.. a machine... from my realm that keeps food cold. A box with two parts. One part is cold enough to keep ice from melting. You put the toys there and the cold soothes the gums when he chews on them.”

“That,” sighed Killian as he leaned back in his chair, “is magic I would happily have accepted.”

“Not magic,” replied the other man, “just mechanics.”

Hook didn't care _what_ the Dark One called this mysterious box of ice, he imagined the ability to enchant a chest to hold such things and sighed at the relief he would have felt having it available for Alice. “She cried constantly in those days,” he said out loud for no reason other than to continue a conversation. “Just when I thought she couldn't possibly break my heart any more, she would start crying all over again and it shattered each piece I had left,” he croaked, voice cracking from the weight of his guilt. “I nearly went mad with grief for her.”

“How did she find relief?” Rumplestiltskin was genuinely curious, his full attention on Killian as he spoke, body shifted forward in attentiveness.

“I had to leave her,” Hook answered sadly, swallowing a lump in his throat at admitting his predicament. “The tower was her prison, I couldn't take her with me.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, running his fingers through his hair. “I'd left before, for food, supplies... But never when she was upset...” His eyes felt moist, and he squeezed them tightly, refusing to let even one tear escape in front of the Dark One. “I couldn't help her,” he whispered. “I tried everything. And I just... I left her... screaming...” 

He felt a hand rest tentatively on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see Rumplestiltskin's scaled fingers settle on him with a feather light touch, not quite squeezing, but applying a pressure that felt surprisingly supportive. “You are a stronger man than I,” he said before letting silence consume them. The Dark One said nothing of the moisture in Killian's eyes, and ignored the trace of tears on his own face when they appeared. After a few breaths, the hand was gone and when Rumplestiltskin finally sat back, he asked, “You found a healer, I take it?”

Killian nodded. “And got a paste.”

The Dark One hummed a little. “Based on clove oil, I would guess...” He sighed and shook his head. “The days we lived through in so many strange realms...” The words trailed off and the two were quiet again until Rumplestiltskin suddenly clapped his hands once and stood. “I am a terrible host. I haven't offered refreshment,” he announced childishly, seeming to ramble the ideas as they came to him. “I don't have rum-”

“No,” Killian said quickly. “Thank you, but I don't drink. Not since I've had this second chance with Alice. I've seen what it did to me, I won't do that again.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded, a smile of appreciation growing on his face. “Then we will get along well, the Pirate and the Dark One.” Killian raised an eyebrow in silent query and Rumplestiltskin clarified. “My father was a swindler, he spent what he... 'earned'... anywhere that would fill his cup. He had no need of a son. I was left with old spinners. They taught me this trade.” He gestured at Alice's dress. “But, it was many years ago...”

This was a story Hook had not heard and he tried to control his expression as memories of his own family history fought to surface. Could the two of them really be as much alike as Alice had said?

“So... Tea?” Rumplestiltskin turned to him and tilted his head in a way that said he may or may not understand the pirate's internal battle of suppression.

“Aye,” agreed Hook quietly. “That would be fine.”

“Hot or cold?” The other man's hands balanced in the air as if physically weighing the options in front of them.

Killian could not imagine why anyone would offer to have the tea served cold, and was certain he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?” 

“They call it 'iced,' but since we have no ice-” The words stopped sharply in the air as every muscle of the the Dark One's body froze. It was as if a spell had been cast over him, entrapping him in a cocoon of immobility. The man's eyes stared, unblinking at the small window across the room, his mouth still open with an explanation that would not come.

Killian followed the man's gaze, but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. He hesitated, then rose and joined him where he stood. “Dark One?” He called the words cautiously as he studied the scaly face. When no response came in movement or voice, he tried again, in a sharper tone. “Rumplestiltskin?”

As if physically shaken, Rumplestiltskin quivered, his head swiveling to Hook and back again. “The.. mmm.. the leaf,” he said as if that explained everything. He wiggled his fingers at the window. “It's... yellow.”

Hook blinked in surprise. A yellow leaf? The most powerful man in the world was just paralyzed by the sight of a yellow leaf? “Aye...” He walked to the pane and examined the leaf that clung to it from the outside. “Not exactly in season, I admit, but-”

“My wife,” murmured Rumplestiltskin. “The yellow flowers... her dress...” His lips moved beyond the words, but no other sound escaped them. Cautiously he strode forward, nails tapping on the glass as his fingers gently caressed the jagged golden edges on the other side. “Belle...” As suddenly as the man was overcome, his focus snapped back to where it had been. “Tea...”

Killian watched the Dark One fuss around the room, looking for cups and a pot, the container with the tea, and generally overdoing every gesture. Finally able to recognize the hurt and fear hidden in the man's actions, he crossed the room without a single thought and hovered at his side. “You know,” Hook offered as he took the items Rumplestiltskin had pulled from various shelves and set them on the table. “In some realms it is believed that loved ones can send messages to us from wherever they wait and that yellow is a color used to guide lost souls.”

Rumplestiltskin stopped what he was doing and looked up. His eyes were overflowing with tears, which trickled down his cheeks and spilled from his chin. He tried to force out a harumph, which was really more a puff of air, then grumbled, “madness,” as he frantically swatted at the air.

“No,” Killian insisted gently. “I have been to those realms. _You_ have been to the Cave of the Departed with Alice, you know they use yellow and orange flowers there. Besides, how is this any different from your ability to use magic? If you wanted, you could snap your fingers and make tea appear in this cup,” he said, lifting it up to display his point. “I say boxes with ice and cold tea are madness, but you have been to realms where they exist. Perhaps...” Hook looked over his shoulder at the window with the single leaf glowing in the morning light. “Perhaps your wife is finding a way to be with you, to remind you of your kind heart, to show you that she sees what you are doing...” Without warning, he suddenly added, “Perhaps she is trying to have you explain why _anyone_ would drink cold tea.”

At this, Rumplestiltskin glanced back at the window, then turned to Killian and suddenly broke into a fit of hysterical laughter, his expression so hard to read that the pirate actually contemplated apologizing yet again for his insensitivity, but as his mouth opened, the Dark One waved a hand at him and shook his head. The laughter continued, becoming contagious, and soon Hook found himself sharing the moment without a need for explanation or apology. 

Eventually, the Dark One waggled a finger at the door. “I will get the cold tea from the stream and you can see...” He reached the doorway and paused there, turning a genuine smile Killian's way. “It _was_ her favorite.”

Wiping tears from his eyes, Hook nodded, then turned to the window to see that the leaf had dislodged itself and fallen away. The sudden disappearance sobered him and he reached his hand to his pocket, pulling out the most recent letter from Alice and letting his eyes wander over the familiar words.

 _Please go and see him, Papa. I think you would find you have more in common than you believe. Now more than ever he needs someone to share stories with, someone to lighten his heart. I worry for him on his bad days. He gets so trapped in his own memories and uses the Dark Ones in his mind to forget. He gets all jumbled then. Rumplestiltskin may have troubles we don't understand, but he_ is _a good man._

“Yes, Starfish,” whispered Killian to the image of Alice in his mind. “I do believe he is...”

* * *

Rumple snatched Alice's arm and pulled her back to the sidewalk as the truck charged past them down the road. Spinning her, he switched their positions so that he took her place at the sidewalk's edge and she was better protected in the center.

“I said the paper turned gold,” she mumbled. “And then there was smoke. That's when I realized it was going to burn.”

Needing a long breath to calm himself, Rumplestiltskin ran a hand over his face to disguise his frustration. She hadn't called him by his proper name after all, he had only been so distracted by the restaurant's chalkboard that he heard only what he wanted to hear most; the “Mister Gold” that always grounded him. Finally words came to him again. “Your head was fizzy... Are you out of medication?”

Alice shook her head. “Nope. _And_ I took some this morning.”

He nodded sadly, then tipped his head in the direction the boys had gone. He couldn't say any more and couldn't turn his gaze from the wet advertisement, not even to see her off. As he listened to her footsteps fade behind him, one hand reached out to caress the hard black surface, smudging the edge of a letter B, beautifully written in yellow chalk. His eyes traveled along the lettering, skipping the slick dribbles that had washed away part of the restaurant's title. The water had changed the words and now he knew it had happened for him.

Instead of the usual “Bella Notte” that topped the display, only five letters remained: B, E, L, L... and E.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry teams up with Rogers to help him solve his missing girl case.

When Henry had seen Rogers at the bar, offering to help with his missing girl case had seemed like a fantastic idea. The detective had obviously been through one hell of a night and Henry wasn't about to make the man go through whatever he was going through without some kind of support. He hadn't expected the detective's acceptance of his offer to feel so lackluster or forced and he couldn't tell if the tone of acceptance had come from a desperate need to get the job done or just from a desire to be left alone. Now, as they left Roni's and headed to the detective's car, Henry worried that maybe he'd pushed himself too far into the other man's space and decided to lighten the mood. “Weaver threw you out, didn't he?” He shot Rogers a knowing look and a winning smile as they walked.

Rogers snorted. “What gave it away?”

“Oh, something about the way you looked at me when you said you 'had to get out of the office for a while.'” The author chuckled as he opened the passenger door and settled himself in the seat. “He seems like a terrible guy to work with. Why don't you get a different partner?”

“You mean besides the fact that that's not how it works?” The detective sighed as he entered the vehicle, then paused in thought, eyes focusing skyward as if he could pluck the answer from the clouds. “I don't _think_ he's the man everyone says he is,” Rogers answered finally, turning the key and pulling out of the space.

Henry blinked and poked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the bar they just left. “Does this come from your getting-to-know-people superpower that you mentioned inside? Because if it did...” He could feel his mouth twitch with movement, but couldn't force more words out of it. So many snappy answers came to mind at the thought of Weaver _not_ being a hard ass, that he couldn't pick out one in particular to put out in the open. 

Rogers glanced at him as they drove away, then turned his eyes to the road. “I know what you're thinking,” he insisted. “But, yeah... As far as I know, I'm the first partner he's had and that means I've worked with him longer than anyone. I know him well enough that I can see something in him that the outside world doesn't.”

“Like what?” Henry huffed playfully, not believing.

“Well, for starters, being hard on people is his way of respecting a job well done.” As Henry opened his mouth to object, the detective shook his head. “It's his way of pushing me to be the detective he knows I can be. He has high expectations because he knows I can meet them and he won't take less than that. He's told me as much, and I believe him.”

Henry thought the words over and felt his mouth twitch in a half smile of almost acceptance. He sucked in a breath of thought through his teeth and tilted his head. “I don't know... You're telling me that he treats you like garbage so you do a good job?”

“I didn't say I agreed with his style or that it made _sense_ ,” huffed Rogers, “but as frustrating as it is, I can respect it.”

“All right,” Henry conceded. “What's the next part?”

Rogers sighed, a sound of concentration and sadness somehow melted together into one emotional release. “Since he got shot he has kept himself away from people. Everyone that he used to talk to down at the precinct, people who would run into him in town... Even most of his informants... He's been avoiding them. He gets the job done and he leaves, he doesn't stick around anymore to boast about the various dishonorable ways he closed a case. And if he _is_ at the station,” added the detective, ”he's locked himself up in the evidence room.”

Henry thought this over, then shrugged. “Well, I mean, he did get shot and went right back to work. You said it was a miracle he survived, so maybe it's a PTSD thing?”

Rogers tilted his head, then shook it. “He's spending less time at Roni's bar and _more_ time with Tilly. In fact, Tilly is the _only_ one of his band of hooligans that I've seen around since the shooting. You'd think a man in mental distress would keep away from the shooter, and spend _more_ time filling his glass.”

The detective had a point, Henry had to allow that. He stared out the window, watching the city pass by as he tried to push around the pieces of a puzzle he'd been given to complete without knowing what the box looked like. He had spent more time _hearing_ about Weaver than actually dealing with the man, and what he had experienced both personally and through the stories of others, told him the older detective was one who disregarded all rules and should be avoided at all costs. 

As they turned a corner, Henry suddenly realized where they were headed and shot a confused look over his shoulder. “This isn't the way to the bridge.”

“I know,” Rogers said as they pulled to a stop down the block from the police station. “I've got to get something first. I thought I had it with me, but I must have left it on my desk.” Though his tone said he wanted to hurry, his body didn't make a move to get out of the car.

“Want me to go see if he's in there?” Henry shot Rogers a winning smile, knowing exactly why the man hesitated. “I can ask and give you some kind of signal when I come out.”

Rogers laughed. “Picking up a notebook isn't exactly an undercover operation.”

Before the detective could object, Henry flung open the car door and stepped out. “It sure can be,” he teased. “Operation...” He thought about the various “operations” in his book, all animals of various kinds, and finally settled on one based off the hard smile he had seen on Weaver when he had come to them at the food truck. “Operation Crocodile.” Before Rogers could stop him, he was at the station door.

Stepping inside, Henry glanced around at the mostly empty space, remembering what it was like the first time he had entered to report his stolen vehicle. At the time no one had seemed willing to help him out and only Rogers had stepped up to lend a hand. Since then, things had changed, or maybe it was just that he was beginning to be a familiar face in the neighborhood. Officers had smiles for him now, and gave pleasant nods or words of greeting as they passed. He wasn't Jessica Fletcher, the author helping them out on every case, but he certainly wasn't on their bad list.

As he found himself wondering about Weaver's behavior and if the cloud over the precinct had been one of that detective's own making, a cheery voice called out to him from behind. “Hey there, Henry. Can I help you?”

Henry turned and gave Sergeant Ryce a smile. “Hey. I wanted to see if Detective Weaver was in?”

The Sergeant shook his head. “Nope. Went out early this morning to do some interviews for the arson case and hasn't been back since. Want me to leave a message for you?”

Remembering the strange questioning they had gone through at the food truck only a few hours ago, Henry felt his eyebrows raise slightly. How many other people could Weaver possibly be interviewing about the fire at Cluck's? Jacinda and Sabine had been there, Lucy had too at one point, but no one else that he knew of had been working in the store that day. In the end his mind settled on the fact that there had been customers in when the fire had started and tracking them down would probably take some time. Finally he shook his head. “No, that's okay. I'll catch him later.”

“Suit yourself,” said Ryce as he crossed the room to his desk. “I'll let him know you were looking for him.”

“Thanks,” Henry called back as he left. As he walked out of the station, he looked down the street and waved toward Rogers as if he just saw someone he recognized, then headed for the car. When Rogers didn't get out, Henry got in. “You're not real good at this,” he teased.

“Perhaps I'd be better at it if your actions made sense,” the detective retorted with a grin. “Wait here. I won't be a moment.”

* * *

The long walk from the restaurant to her place had given Tilly a lot of time to think and what her mind came up with was that Weaver hadn't fully recovered from his surgery. Well, it had thought of other things too, but he didn't at all seem the type to be addicted to medications _and_ he had left an unopened bottle of pills in his hospital room, so she had cast those notions aside almost as soon as she had thought of them. Now, as she leaned against her friend under the bridge, she settled her mind on the idea that the detective was just very tired... or something.

Her thoughts wandered as she watched people pass in front of her. The reason she had chosen this spot for her most important “business” transactions was that the giant that lived here could tell her a lot about the types of people she would meet. The ones that walked with determination were locals. They were so used to the sculpture that they didn't think twice about passing it. The ones that stopped to study it, though, _they_ were new to the area and most of those types of people could be persuaded to make a purchase or two.

The earliest part of the lunch rush contained so many of both types that it was hard to persuade the potential clients to leave the less trusting locals behind, but now that things had slowed down, Tilly could pick out individuals that _might_ be willing to let her convince them they were desperate to know the time. That is, she could do it as long as the police didn't show up...

“Hel-looo, detective...” Her words danced out as she quickly tucked away the case that she had so prominently displayed only a moment before. Since she worked for Weaver, she knew nothing would come of her being caught by anyone in his precinct, but that didn't stop her from at least trying to keep up the pretense of concern for the law. 

Rogers stepped closer, his eyes pointedly looking away from the case of watches that was not so well hidden between her friend's large fingers. As he spoke about the girl he had been trying to find, Tilly's mind twirled inside itself and a feeling like falling through a bottomless hole came over her. It had only been a few _hours_ since she had been in Weaver's office and now the book he told her she had never seen before was very clearly visible to her for the second time that day.

The man standing in front of her needed her help, but so did his partner, and the two of them were working against each other on the same case in the oddest game of chess she had ever experienced in her life. She tried to look unimpressed with the journal when Rogers handed it to her for examination, but it wasn't easy. Forcing her expression to remain neutral and her conversation to focus on the person, not the object, made it somewhat easier to change the focus, but she worried her emotion showed through. She felt as if she were jumping from chair to chair at a tea party with no other guests.

“I don't think this girl was taken,” she finally determined as she handed the book back. The conclusion coming less from it's pages and more from the interaction, or the _lack_ of interaction, between the two detectives. Rogers was on a missing person case and Weaver seemed dead set against letting his own partner solve it. Tilly was beginning to wonder what exactly was going on.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weaver questions Lucy about what he claims is evidence from the fire, but hears more about himself than he expected to. In the end, he gets the one thing that he needs the most of anything in Hyperion Heights.

As he headed out of the parking deck to Belfrey Towers, Detective Weaver was bodyslammed by a small child. Instinctively catching her by the arms, Rumple swiveled with the velocity of her impact, slowing his great granddaughter to a full stop in front of him. “Woah. Where's the fire?”

The girl swallowed. “Hello Detective.” She glanced behind him at the building's entrance, her eyes holding an eagerness that said she was hoping to be out of sight by now. “My step-grandma is inside, if you are looking for her.” She offered the words in a single, breathless rush.

Rumple's heart sank a little at the thought of Lucy trying to push him away. He had missed so much of her life because he had refused to let anyone but a select few see the scales return. He put on his best Weaver smile as he gazed down at her, “I was actually coming to see _you_.” hoping to reassure Lucy that he was on her side, he released her shoulder and scanned the area quickly for any of Belfrey's employees.

Lucy blinked up at him. “Me?” 

“Why don't we go somewhere we can talk?” Rumplestiltskin nodded at the building he had just exited and began to usher her inside. He guided Lucy to the nearest stairwell and opened the door. “Whoever is looking for you,” he said, “probably won't be looking in here.” His eye twitched in a wink and he indicated the steps.

“Thanks,” she said as she sat, though it didn't sound like she was all too sure about what was going on.

Rumple closed the door and opened his hands in a gesture of welcome and listening. “Anything you need to tell me about where you're going? Or who you're running from?”

Lucy quickly shook her head, trying so hard to look innocent that all he could see was the guilt of someone who wanted to slip away without being noticed. “Nope.” After a pause she gave him a curious stare. “But... didn't you say that _you_ needed to talk to _me_?”

Taking a long breath, Rumple nodded and sat. “I did.” He could feel the weight of the dagger in his jacket, pushing against his chest while simultaneously pulling at his soul. Lucy was the child of the truest believer, she hadn't shown any signs of using magic, but just as her father had done at her age, she had maintained some hint of her family's true origins through the casting of a curse. Rumplestiltskin had to wonder if that would be enough for what he was about to try. “Did Roni say anything to you about what I found the other day?”

“You mean about her adopting Henry?” Lucy's eyes widened a little in surprise.

“Well,” Rumple corrected. “I _did_ find proof that a woman named _Regina_ adopted a boy named Henry, but that doesn't mean-”

Lucy didn't let him finish. “It _has_ to be Roni,” she insisted, the words coming so quickly that there was hardly a space between them. “She found a picture in that creepy room-” She cut herself off, tilting her head to look up at him. “You knew you would find the adoption records,” she insisted.

Rumple shook his head, trying to play the part of ignorance. “Actually, I had no idea.”

“No,” Lucy said flatly, not buying in to the lie. “I think you knew.”

“All right. Perhaps I _did_ think there was something unusual about her wanting me to research an adoption that she shouldn't have known about,” he conceded, fighting a smile that grew as her eyes brightened. She was so much like her father. She had so much hope. “And before you ask, _yes_ I _have_ read Henry's book. _But_ none of this means that the story is real.”

Lucy sat silently, studying his face. “You believe.” She said at last, in a tone that made it fact.

Rumple scowled, blinking at her. “Believe in fairytales?” 

“They _could_ be true,” Lucy insisted. “What makes you so sure that they aren't?”

Rumplestiltskin huffed and stared down at the ring on his hand, twisting it slightly on his finger, using it as a distraction from the emotions that were piling up on him. “It isn't possible for real people to live happily ever after,” he told her angrily. “That's how I know.”

“No...” Lucy pulled out the word into a single, long thought. “Maybe something happened to change you now, but you believed once.” Her eyes studied his face, peering at him with an intensity that was uncomfortable even as seen at the edge of his vision.

Taking the opportunity to shift the subject, Rumple pulled the dagger out of his jacket and studied it, making sure to keep the side with his name hidden from her, as he had done with Ella and Tiana. “Well, _someone_ believes,” he admitted. “Do you recognize this?”

The girl's eyes went wide and focused sharply on the object in his hand. “That's the Dark One's Dagger!” Her excitement was so intense that Rumple could almost feel it press against him. He watched her gaze travel along the length of the blade, devouring it with the eagerness that only a child could possess. She was too innocent to realize the true potential of the object in his hand, too young to accept the real danger involved in holding it. His mind turned to Baelfire, entrusted with a burden too heavy for his age, commanding the Dark One to vanquish their foe even though the boy had sworn against magic and darkness.

Rumple tried to hold on to the Weaver persona, nodding seriously at Lucy's words, but his heart filled with the pain of losing Baelfire, of having Gideon taken from him, of having everyone he loved torn from him because of his broken fate. He tucked the evidence bag back into his pocket, out of her sight, refusing to subject her to the test. He would have to find another way to locate a new Guardian. This way was only forcing him to test those who didn't deserve to be subjected to such darkness and pain. “That knife was found outside of Clucks the day of the fire and-”

“You think _Henry_ started the fire?!” Lucy rose to her feet in anger, her words knocking into him as roughly as if she had kicked him in the shin. “He wouldn't do that. I _know_ he wouldn't!”

Rumple reached up to place a reassuring hand on her arm, his heart breaking. “Now, I didn't say that, Lucy. No one thinks Henry was involved-”

Before he could stop her, Lucy reached into his jacket and snatched the dagger from the pocket. Swallowing a shout of alarm, Rumplestiltskin waited, willing nothing to happen and wishing for _something_ to happen all at the same time, but the blade didn't break or crumble or dissolve, it simply sat like the lifeless thing it was in this world without magic. If Lucy was a potential Guardian, the dagger couldn't indicate that in this realm. 

“It looks just like the one in the book!” His great granddaughter's voice whispered the exclamation the way someone would when meeting their idol. Here was more proof that she had been right all along about Henry and what he had written. Rumplestiltskin had both elevated her hopes and dashed them all at once.

“I thought so too,” he answered flatly. “I just... needed the opinion of someone who knew the story as well as I did.” He smiled, but it felt weak and he turned his gaze back to his hands.

“Why do you have two voices?” 

Lucy's seemingly random question came from nowhere, making him blink and search frantically for words that he couldn't find. Fighting a sudden desire to blurt out the truth, he looked up at her in surprise and managed a weak, “What do you mean?”

The girl tilted her head. “Your accent changes when you're not trying so hard to be grumpy.” Her smile widened and her eyes sparkled as she teased him. “It's almost as if you are two different people.”

“As long as I have been in Hyperion Heights, I have only been Detective Weaver.” Rumple grunted harshly, his hand darting out and quickly taking the evidence bag from her before she could ask him anything else. “And I'm not grumpy.”

“See.” Lucy grinned and pointed playfully in his direction, as if the word “grump” were written on his chest. “When you talk to everyone else you sound...” Her eyes looked at the ceiling as she tried to come up with a word to complete her sentence, falling back down only when she settled on a single word. “Fake.” 

This was what he had worried about from the moment he had woken from his surgery in the hospital. Purged of the curse, the Weaver voice didn't come naturally to him. In fact, it was a voice he had always used as the Dark One when he was trying to _look_ the part of the nasty villain, but wasn't at all feeling it. His mind began to wander through the past and called up the day he and Belle first met the Sheriff of Nottingham, but Lucy broke in on his memory.

“It's like you're _pretending_ to be a bad cop,” she said as if she could see what he was thinking. “You look one way on the outside to hide the way you are on the inside.”

Speaking fully as Weaver, Rumple gave her a quirky smile. “So my _accent_ makes me the bad guy, not my _actions_?” He snorted with uncertainty at the thought.

“Nope.” Lucy grinned at him again, leaning forward to whisper, “It means you're secretly a good guy.” Her head tilted in thought and she added cheerfully, “You're like Rumplestiltskin in Henry's book. You just need a Belle.”

Forcing his face to remain as neutral as possible, Rumple stood and walked to the door of the stairwell. “Yes,” he mumbled. “I just need a Belle.” Intending to send Lucy on her way, he opened the door into the parking deck and came face to face with Tilly, holding up a paper bag.

“I brought your teacup...”

* * *

Weaver had barely seen Lucy off when he caught Tilly by the elbow and guided her to his car. “How did you know I was here?”

“Um, your car?” Tilly waved a hand at it as they got closer. “I saw it sitting here and I thought to myself, 'If the detective drove in, he's going to want to drive out eventually.' So I waited in the corner.” She shrugged, thinking the whole thing was so obvious it really didn't need any explaining.

The man waved off her rambling. “Never mind,” he insisted, opening the passenger door for her. “Who had the book?” The words seemed meaningless, as if he already knew the answer, but was asking to fill the time.

Tilly started to respond but the door slammed shut just as her mouth opened to speak, so she watched the detective circle to the driver's side and waited for him to get in. Through all of the years she had provided him with information, this was the first time he had seemed flustered with her in particular. It worried her in a way that she couldn't work out. “Your partner,” she told him once he was seated. “He's trying to find a girl.”

“That old kidnapping case,” Weaver grumbled. “He isn't going to let it go.”

“Doesn't seem like a kidnapping to me,” Tilly insisted.

The detective's eyes went wide. “Did you _tell_ Rogers that?”

Tilly studied Weaver's face, trying to make sense of what she could see. His emotions seemed even more unraveled than they had earlier. Then again, maybe it was what she couldn't see that was the problem. As he took the bag from her, his concentration clearly shifted. She watched him remove several pieces of the shattered cup, examine them, then replace them, only to pick up more. “He asked for my help,” she said as she watched. “I had to tell him something.”

“And now that he thinks she ran away,” Weaver snapped, still sifting through the pieces, “he will be more determined than ever to locate her.” His voice softened quickly with the last few words as he lifted up one bit of ceramic and caressed a chip in the blue line of the edge. With as much care as if he were holding a fragile egg shell, he pocketed the fragment, then pointed a finger at her seat. “Wait here.”

As Weaver exited the car, Tilly felt caught up in a whirlwind of questions and the first thing she asked herself was _What happened to his voice?_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Rogers and Henry eagerly await Alice's arrival, Weaver confronts Belfrey, forcing her into a deal that she can't refuse.

Rogers hummed a random tune as he and Henry made their way down the waterside walk of the park. The white bag in his hand seemed to creak along in song as it swung at his side and his mind drifted like a boat at sea. He couldn't quite figure out how simply having Henry join him had so altered his mood from earlier in the morning. It was as if they were old mates from school, reuniting after a recent tragedy and bonding as a result of the outcome.

“Someone's in a better mood.” Henry broke in on his thoughts.

“Yeah, well... Things seem to be looking up, I suppose.” Rogers found a vacant bench and gestured at it, a querying eyebrow raised. Henry nodded and the two of them made their way to sit. “That or the water,” he said as they settled. “I always did find this area somehow settled me.”

“You, my friend, are a man of many mysteries,” Henry teased with a grin before sipping on the coffee he had purchased at the sandwich shop. He looked at his watch, then glanced around the area before his expression turned serious. “So, this girl that's helping us,” Henry queried, the skepticism in his voice thick as syrup, but not at all as sweet. “She's Weaver's top informant. The one he's been spending all of his time with.”

Rogers nodded and sipped from his own cup, then swallowed down a “Yeah.”

“I mean, you know the guy better than I do, so I think it's a fair thing for me to ask, but... Can we even trust her? I know what you said about Weaver not being the cop most of us think he is, but the man has a long history of corruption. How do we know he doesn't have her under his spell?”

“The man's a detective, not a magician,” Rogers said with a smile. “Besides, what I know of Tilly tells me she isn't the kind to let his ways become her own. She's honest, almost to a fault. When she shot him she could have run off, but she stayed, even in the hospital, and when I questioned her about what happened her story matched all the evidence.”

Henry looked across the water thoughtfully. “Why do you think she shot him?”

“I have no idea,” Rogers said. He was still trying to wrap his mind around that one. “She certainly doesn't seem like someone who is dangerous and she was so shaken up about the whole ordeal that it was almost as if she had been possessed when it happened. Probably has to do with her medications, to be honest.”

“Medications?” Henry's eyes went wide. “So we're trusting someone with a mental illness to track down this information for us?”

“Look,” Rogers shifted in the bench, scowling at Henry. “Only some types of mental illness require hospitalization. Hers is completely manageable, as long as she's on her meds.”

Henry held his hands up as if defending himself against a physical blow. “Hey, all right,” he teased. “No need to get defensive about it. I just wanted to make sure we could trust her is all. If you say she's reliable, then she is.”

Tipping his head back, Rogers whispered out an apology. “Sorry, I didn't mean to snap like that. It's just that she's a sweet girl and she has helped me out a few times now without giving me any reason to doubt her actions.” He thought a little bit, his hand idly rubbing at his chest. “I don't know why, but something about her pushes at my heart, lifts it up when I'm struggling. Maybe it's her fearlessness, maybe it's her smile...”

“Sounds like you have more than one relationship with someone that can't be explained,” Henry grinned. “Anyone else you'd like to confess having some kind of strange bond with?”

Rogers looked at Henry from the corner of his eye. “Can you explain how you feel so connected to Jacinda and her daughter?”

Henry chuckled. “Touche.” He glanced at his watch again and a comfortable silence fell between them as they waited.

 _Come on, Tilly,_ thought Rogers. _Don't prove me wrong about you._

* * *

The cool surface of the cup felt both familiar and strange. Riding in the elevator, Rumple idly ran his finger over the blue rim, avoiding the new, jagged edges and caressing the older, smoother, and familiar chip. This was what would give him strength now. The cup it had been a part of, and all of the memories it had contained, filled his heart with a lightness he hadn't experienced since his dream with Belle.

 _This is how you have to be here now,_ he thought to Belle as the elevator slowed. Reluctantly he pulled his hand from his pocket, leaving the chip tucked safely inside. His fingers twitched in the open air, but remained locked in the position they had been in only moments before, still caressing a phantom duplicate of what he held so dear.

After a quiet ping the doors opened and Victoria Belfrey was revealed before him. She stood at the main desk, examining a pair of shoes, holding them up to her face as if searching for evidence. This was not what Rumplestiltskin had expected to see, but he knew at once that it meant things would go in his favor. Rapunzel was beginning to work out her daughter's part in the curse, or at least the sprout of a realization was pushing it's way to the surface. She would be vulnerable and he could gain the upper hand, especially if he could nudge her even further into uncertainty.

With an even larger boost of confidence than the teacup had given him, he slowly entered the room and teased, “Bad time? I could come back if you've got something... uh... bigger on you plate.”

“No,” she insisted calmly, though her expression indicated she wasn't being entirely truthful. “I assure you, everything is fine.”

 _As fine as my teacup, I'll bet,_ Rumple thought to himself, trying to hold back a grin. “Well,” he told her instead, “that may be a temporary condition.” Stepping up to the desk, he explained, “It seems Detective Rogers is close to solving the Eloise Gardner case.”

Belfrey scowled. “And why haven't you stopped him?”

“He has an emotional attachment to the case that makes it difficult to break,” Rumple told her as Weaver, making sure to keep his tone strictly business, but picking words that would fester in her memory. Hopefully, when next she thought about them, she would worriedly question whether or not he was aware of himself or any of the others. He forced his lips to press tightly against his teeth, fighting the smile he felt rising as he imagined Rapunzel asking herself what this “emotional attachment” could be.

“If you can't break him of his little obsession, then I shall find someone who can do it in a more permanent fashion,” she insisted, her voice filled with authority. “The choice is entirely yours.” 

Rumplestiltskin allowed himself one more moment as the Weaver she expected him to be, taking in her words with a sort of resignation that implied he accepted his role in their arrangement. He swallowed, half nodded, and let out a snort, as if thinking over his options, but in the blink of an eye the Weaver she knew was gone. 

“Do you know the interesting thing about my job?” Rumplestiltskin marched around the desk, forcing his body into her space just enough to make her cringe.

“I'm sure I wouldn't have any idea of what _you_ consider interesting,” Belfrey huffed, looking down her nose at him.

“While you might have access to the video cameras in every building you own, _I_ have access to all of the phone records in Hyperion Heights,” The Dark One answered, his smile turning into a sneer. 

Belfrey swallowed, but didn't otherwise give up the pretense of having the upper hand. “And you think that _means_ something to me?”

“Oh, I think it means a great deal,” Rumple hissed, leaning closer still. “You see, now that I'm investigating the arson at that chicken shop, I can request any records that I suspect might be linked to my case and I think you know the first number I plan to look up.”

“Since I have a more sophisticated palate than that tiny eatery could cater to, I'm sure you aren't implying that _I_ would have a connection...”

Rumplestiltskin tilted his head, pulling back to look at her in confusion. “Everyone knows your step daughter was working there at the time of the fire,” he told her matter of factly. “And I could easily name more than a dozen witnesses to your recent custody disputes over Lucy.”

“Detective,” Belfrey sighed, taking he shoes she had set on the counter and putting them on the floor, under the desk. “Just tell me what it is you want.”

“Wiggle room,” snarled Rumple, pushing himself back into Weaver's persona again. “You let _me_ handle Rogers and you let me do it _my_ way.”

Belfrey pretended to reorganize the work space in front of her, adjusting the pens in their holder and shifting the phone slightly on it's base. “As long as I get _what_ I want, I don't care _how_ you go about doing it.”

Rumple let out an amused snort and pretended to leave, but after a few steps, he spun on his heel and pointed a finger thoughtfully in her direction, simplifying a movement he would have made as the Dark One. “You know,” he said as if just coming to a new conclusion about their situation. “Bringing people into town just to do your dirty work may keep your hands clean for a while, but it doesn't go unnoticed forever.” 

Without giving her a chance to respond, he entered the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor. Though he would have enjoyed seeing her reaction to his words, they had more weight if he ignored her all together. The longer she questioned the true meaning of their conversation, the more control he would have when they met again.

As soon as the elevator doors opened Rumple crossed the lobby and entered the parking deck, where he was surprised to find Tilly dutifully waiting inside of his car. She looked over at him quizzically as he buckled in. “What now?”

“Now,” said Rumplestiltskin with a smile, “We tell a story.”


End file.
